


Through the Fade

by Fionavar



Category: Dragon Age II, Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Humour, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/pseuds/Fionavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waging an unwinnable war against the god of the dead was always going to have consequences. Tarva knew it, but she wasn't prepared for this – any more than Hawke was prepared to deal with the strangers who claimed to be from another world. Sequel (of sorts) to my fic 'All It Takes'; Mask of the Betrayer and Dragon Age 2 crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Kaelyn was praying. Again. Safiya had never found the priestess's behaviour more irritating and less logical. There they were, in the land of the dead, sitting beside the Wall of the Faithless – the structure that had started this whole mess. The screams of the souls tortured there split the still, grey air of the City of Judgement, and, although they had been waiting there for hours, Safiya had not succeeded in ignoring them.

Beside Safiya lay a half-elf, pale and emaciated. Her chest still rose and fell, although it was barely perceptible; Safiya was holding her hand (it felt like a bunch of frozen twigs in hers) as much for comfort as to monitor her pulse. The Red Wizard looked down at the face of her friend – the best friend she'd ever had. "I refuse to believe you'll be beaten now," she said conversationally, as though the woman could hear her, as though she was not fighting for her very life and soul. "You've fought this damned Hunger too long to let it win now, Tarva. Besides, Gann would never forgive you."

Gann. The hagspawn they'd pulled out of a jail cell – irreverent, impossibly vain, an incorrigible flirt – who'd followed Tarva first to win his freedom, then out of curiosity, even fascination with their stoic leader, and finally, for love. Love that Tarva had come, gradually, to return. Safiya had watched it all, with a mixture of amusement, alarm and eventually approval. She could still remember the shy smile on Tarva's face (and the half-elf very rarely unbent so far as to smile) that morning, the newfound love burning in her eyes when she looked at Gann, and the wonder in his.

Safiya shook her bald, tattooed head restlessly. It was too sharp a contrast to the horrible emptiness on his face when Tarva had fallen, the despair as he'd called her name, before he'd crashed down beside her. She hoped that he fought at Tarva's side, as they had fought together in dreams before. "You take care of her," Safiya murmured. "Or I _will_ Disintegrate you."

Safiya raised her eyes from their still faces. Nothing she could do for them, except keep vigil.

"Mithtreth?" her familiar asked, his clay wings creating a small, stillborn breeze. "Kaji wonders why they sleep?"

"To win her soul back from the Hunger," Safiya answered absently. _I hope_ , she did not add; the homunculus would not understand anyway. She had constructed him for company, not for brains.

A low rumble behind her, a waft of warmth and bear, was Okku. "Safiya," the bear-god said, "you worry too much."

"You've told me that before, old bear," she said, as he lowered his head and nosed affectionately at Tarva's hair. He'd been fonder of her than Safiya could have ever expected a king of spirits to be of a spirit-eater. Then she cursed herself for thinking in the past tense.

"She is not dead," he said, a dark silhouette against the glowing blue light of his spirit army. "I would not be here with my kin if I did not believe that she will triumph."

Safiya just nodded. There was, really, nothing to say.

It wasn't stopping Kaelyn, of course. The cleric was still praying, beseeching her god to help. Ridiculous. She prayed to Ilmater as she sat in the City of Judgement, the very stronghold of the god of the dead, the god whom she'd abandoned. If Ilmater were inclined to help, he would have done so earlier, as Tarva's goddess, Chauntea, had.

Nothing to do but wait, and so she waited, trying to block out the screams and concentrate only on Tarva's faint, irregular heartbeat. She had almost managed it when the pulse leapt beneath her fingers, beating strong and glad.

Safiya closed her eyes, a tremulous smile of relief curving her lips. That _had_ to be a good sign.

When she opened her eyes again, there was a man looking at her. It was the eyes she saw first, dark and filled with love. She knew him – with every part of her somewhat fractured soul, she knew him. "Akachi," Safiya said softly, barely aware of Kaelyn's awe-struck echo as she rose to her feet.

"Nefris," he answered, calling her by her first, her oldest name. So many times her name had fallen from his lips in those same yearning tones – long ago, when he had been a living man and she had been a whole woman. "Safiya," he added then, smiling in acknowledgement of who and what she had become.

A flare of silver light, and Kelemvor, the god of the dead, appeared, Chauntea beside him. The weight of his presence lay only lightly on them now. The masked face turned to face Akachi, and the deep voice was gentle, almost compassionate. "Are you ready? False soul, tortured at Myrkul's whims, your rest awaits you."

Akachi nodded slowly. "This time, my love, it is really goodbye. Think of me."

"I will," Safiya answered, and then he was gone. It felt like a huge weight had struck the back of her brain, a weight of memories and thoughts and personalities that were hers and not-hers...

At her feet, Tarva and Gann were stirring, turning to each other as blindly and instinctively as flowers turned to the sun. Kaelyn hovered over them, pouring out a million question that Tarva ignored as she blinked slowly. Safiya turned, helping the half-elf to her feet and then hugging her fiercely, as Chauntea smiled at them and drew Gann off to one side. He didn't go without a longing look back at Tarva.

"We saw Akachi," Tarva told Safiya quietly. "He's free, now. Whole."

"I know," the Red Wizard answered. "We saw him too."

Tarva's eyes, large and blue as midnight, searched hers carefully. "And are you-?"

"I'll be all right," she said. Eventually. After the shock had settled and she worked out who exactly she was now. "It... wasn't easy."

"I believe you," Tarva said, turning to watch Chauntea and Gann returning. There was a rather dazed look on the hagspawn's handsome face, and he appeared to be muttering something; Safiya squinted at his lips and thought she made out 'ten?'.

Okku nosed at Tarva's legs, and the half-elf scratched the thick, rainbowy fur behind his ears. "All's well, little one!" he rumbled joyously. "I was right to trust you."

"Indeed," Kaelyn agreed, her voice as soft and serene as always. "But I still would like to know-"

Perhaps Kelemvor knew what his erstwhile priestess would have asked, for he spoke firmly. "Akachi has gone to his proper rest at last, among the False souls of old. You have ended his torment, Tarva El-Auri; you have done what gods thought beyond their power."

"Perhaps it was beyond _our_ power," Chauntea said, her smile warm and full of quiet happiness, "but I knew you could end the Hunger. With a little help."

"More than usual, Lady," Tarva said.

"Oh, yes," the goddess admitted. "Child, Myrkul wrought far more when he created that curse than even he knew. Even in resistance to the Hunger, you ended a god; what you could have become if you had embraced it instead..." She shook her silver head. "We all agreed it was better to help you as much as we were allowed."

"We did not anticipate the chaos you willingly sowed in my grey city," Kelemvor said gravely. "For that, there must be judgement." Chauntea murmured his name, as plea or rebuke. "Your Crusade was born of the hatred of a dead god, the desperation of a Faithless soul, and the betrayal of my lost Doomguide –" Kaelyn visibly quailed a little at that barb, "and the good you have done redeems much..." Kelemvor's voice was even and emotionless as he added, "but not everything."

Chauntea gazed at her worshipper, leaf-green eyes sorrowful. "Daughter, I am sorry."

"I knew there would be a price," Tarva said softly, overriding the protest Gann would have voiced. "I have told you that I am willing to pay it."

The death-god's mask was still a moment longer, then turned. "Lord Okku of Rashemen. You are a god in your own right, even if you are much less than I am. I have little authority over you, and none at all when you are acting in defence of your land and your kin. Take your army and go home; I can lay no punishment upon you."

Okku snarled softly at the dismissal. "You will not touch her, two-legger b-" and then disappeared in a blur of silver light as Kelemvor sent him and his army back to Rashemen, where they belonged.

Tarva was very still, her face white, impassive and fixed on Kelemvor, although Safiya knew she would have wanted to farewell the irascible old bear. The Red Wizard clutched her familiar tighter against her chest, and Kaji squeaked a protest.

"Kaelyn the Dove," Kelemvor said, and the cleric raised her head, her wings flexing. "Your guilt is great. You abandoned my service to pursue the Crusade, a vain attempt to tear down the Wall of the Faithless. When these others would have chosen to defend my grey city, you forced them to fight in your cause. Is there anything you wish to say in your defence?"

"The Wall is unjust, my lord. It _must_ be demolished."

Kelemvor sighed, a sound that recalled the humanity he had shed long ago. "As I thought. Kaelyn, Ilmater has left your fate in my hands. You will enter my service once again, and perhaps, this time, you may come to understand better."

"No-" Kaelyn cried out, but then the silver light swallowed her. When it died, she was gone.

"And good riddance," Safiya muttered.

"Tarva El-Auri," the god of death addressed their leader. "My judgement is decided. Is it still your will to take all of it upon yourself?"

"Lord, it is."

"Well, it's not mine," Gann asserted, Tarva's hand clasped firmly in his. "You have suffered more than enough, my love. I believe it's my turn."

"Gann, no-"

Safiya coughed. "As touching as all this self-sacrificial chatter is, you are both missing the point. Gann, do you really think Tarva would be happy without you? Besides, this was always my mess to clean up." She stepped forward, set her hand to her hips, fixed her eyes on Kelemvor's mask. "Send them home," she demanded.

"I told you," Chauntea interjected quietly.

"You did," Kelemvor admitted. "Tarva El-Auri. Gannayev-of-Dreams. Safiya. There are laws you have broken, and for those laws, there must be payment."

"We do know that part," Safiya told him. "We _were_ listening."

Behind him, the goddess made a small sound that might have been laughter.

"All three of you will be exiled," Kelemvor said.

"Wait-" Chauntea cried, but the silver light of the god's magic – well, if that was the correct term for it (Safiya had never cared for anything other than her own arcane arts, and now was not really the best time to be debating semantics) – flared about them and took them away.

Just a flash, and the three of them were standing outside the grey City of Judgement, the screams of the Wall of the Faithless a faint, uneasy sound in the distance. "Well," Safiya muttered, "that could have gone better."

"Exiled to where, I wonder?" Tarva said, looking about her. The grey Fugue Plane, land of the dead, stretched into the distance.

"Does it matter?" Gann drew Tarva to him, rested his forehead against hers. "As long as we are together, I fear nothing."

"Than you are braver than I," she answered, her hands coming up to thread through his silver hair.

"Not to interrupt..." Safiya said, although of course she did, "but one, we should probably attempt to leave the Fugue Plane sooner rather than later, regardless of where we end up, and two, you are making me feel rather awkward."

"Awkward, fair wizardess? Or left out?" Lips puckered, Gann made a grab for her, which Safiya evaded.

"Awkward," she said firmly, although Gann's good humour was cheering. "As I cannot cast Plane Shift, I suggest we pick a direction."

"Away from the Wall," Tarva said, and began walking.

The screaming faded quickly, leaving them no way to tell how much time passed in the grey changelessness of the Fugue Plane. Safiya _thought_ they had been walking for a while, but she felt no hunger. Nor was she tired from all the fighting they had done earlier, leading Kaelyn's doomed Crusade – as though physical limits simply did not apply.

She mentioned this thought to them, hugging Kaji against her chest – after a moment, the homunculus wriggled free.

"A side-effect of the Fugue Plane, I _think_ ," Tarva said, pressed close to Gann, as if to reassure herself that she was free of the curse, that she could touch him without desiring to consume his soul. "But really, isn't that more your field of study?"

"Nobody's really studied the Fugue Plane in much depth," Safiya told her. "Something about death as an entry requirement puts scholars off, particularly without a cleric's support to pull you back afterwards."

"And I thought the Red Wizards were such serious – Gann, what is it?" Tarva stopped and turned to face her hagspawn. He looked just as usual as far as Safiya could tell – green eyes, shaggy silvery hair, purplish skin – but he was staring rather oddly into the distance.

"Dreaming," he muttered. "Near. I've never felt anything like it, not even the Coven." He shook his head and changed direction, pulling Tarva along with him. Her free hand reached into her heavy plate armour and pulled out a small round stone – the Hag's Eye, Safiya saw. Just in case.

"Gann, are you certain abou-"

Safiya had never seen him completely ignore Tarva before.

He was almost running now, racing towards some border or object only he could sense; Tarva keeping up easily and no longer asking for an explanation it seemed he would not give; Safiya running along behind – Red Wizard robes were not constructed for this sort of thing.

Only an instant behind them, she saw Gann crumple. She saw Tarva fall to her knees. She saw the light change.

Then she knew nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Dragon Age readers, this is the ending of Mask of the Betrayer. All the relevant points will turn up again. Rest assured that Hawke and the gang will show up in the first chapter. Readers of All it Takes will have noticed several small differences from that story's ending (as well as several great galumphing ones). Rest assured that they were all intentional, even the ones I didn't notice.


	2. Hawke Fails a Spellcraft Check

Hawke: Spellcraft *success impossible* : (12 + 9 = 21 vs. DC: 99)

* * *

The sultry summer heat was much less oppressive outside the city, and a cool, playful wind kept them company as they climbed Sundermount. It tugged at the short, black curls of Hawke's hair, and had already flipped up Isabela's abbreviated skirt twice – which, as Varric had remarked the first time, was no great feat.

"You were named Leandra for your mother," Isabela said, with a wise little nod.

Hawke sighed. "After – what, three years? – you're still on about this?"

"Come on, Hawke, you can't expect us to just let a mystery like this lie uninvestigated." Varric threw his hands up in the air. "How do you think that'd sound – 'oh, yes, I travelled with this relentless do-gooder of a mage for years.' 'Really? What was her name?' 'Ummm... well, I never found out.' Yes, that will carry conviction."

"Then make something up," Hawke told him.

Fenris was participating this round, it seemed. "Is it Marian?"

"You'll never guess," Hawke told them. "But, no, it isn't."

"Is it Bernard?" Merrill asked. "I bet it's Bernard."

There was that moment of silence that often accompanied Merrill's statements as everyone tried to fit their heads around the Dalish's peculiar breed of illogic, and the inevitable sigh as everyone simultaneously remembered that it was impossible. "It's not Bernard, Merrill."

"Oh, is it Tamlen, then? I'd like it to be Tamlen."

"Kitten, why are you guessing men's names?"

"Because Hawke said we'd never guess, so I thought maybe a man's name, because we wouldn't think of that -" Merrill furrowed her brow. "But then, I did, so of course it isn't –"

Hawke shook her head ruefully.

"Oh, look!" Merrill said, and knelt beside the shrub, stroking its wide, graceful leaves and sniffing appreciatively the scarlet blooms. "That's the embrium we were looking for."

"Hooray," Varric said without any enthusiasm whatsoever. "Celebrate with me, Broody – we found a vegetable."

"A herb, technically," Hawke said, and flashed a grin at Fenris, who was not noticeably celebrating.

Isabela was still on the name-guessing thing, apparently. "Oooh, is it Bianca?"

Hawke rolled her eyes. "It is not. I'll tell you this much: currently, Merrill's the closest."

"Oh," the elf said. "Is it Varric?"

"Daisy-"

Hawke felt it first as a subtle unease, like a hair being drawn across the inside of her skull. She glanced around, trying to spot the problem as the feeling intensified.

Fenris was watching her. "Hawke, what is it?"

"I'm not sur- oh, Maker's _balls."_ She reached for her bladed staff, as Merrill carefully laid down the embrium blossoms and stood. She'd felt it too. "Something's happening to the Veil. Something big."

Instantly Isabela had her daggers in hand, Fenris his sword, and Varric was patting Bianca's stock. "Prepare for visitors, then?" the dwarf asked, in a tone that suggested that he already knew the answer.

Hawke flinched as the Fade roared in her mind like a wounded beast. "Like you've never seen before."

"Right. Too late to run away?"

"And how would that sound in your stories, Varric?" Hawke forced the words out against the pounding in her head as the Veil rippled and deformed -

"Bit tricky to tell stories if you're dead."

\- and _tore_. Like a painted backdrop, the Sundermount path ahead of them ripped apart and another reality burst through. The eerie, indirect radiance of the Fade, greenish and yellowy, spilled out over them, and Fenris cursed in venomous, hard-edge Arcanum.

Through the rift, Hawke could see dry, thorny plants, a pile of milking stools balanced on top of a ladle. In the sky, the Black City loomed, looking, as always, as though it was about to fall on her head. But there were no demons pouring through. She had never seen the Fade so peaceful.

" _This_ is trouble 'like we've never seen before'?" Isabela asked, straightening from her combat-ready crouch. "Oooh, Hawke, I'm terrified."

"Shut up, Isabela," Hawke said automatically. "Look, this doesn't make _sense_."

Merrill prodded at the very edge of the tear with her staff; it rippled away like smoke. "It is a bit unusual," the elf said. "Do you think we should close it?"

"If there's some secret Dalish technique for that, by all means go ahead."

She blinked. "There isn't, but I thought you might know how. You're terribly clever, Hawke."

A black, wavering shadow appeared on the path; an instant later, a scarlet and silver shape tumbled through the rift, which sealed itself behind them, and landed in a clang of metal on the ground.

"What in the V-"

"See, I knew you could do it, Hawke!"

She started forward. The shape that had fallen out of the Fade turned out to be two people. The first was an unconscious woman, her head shaved bald and all sorts of designs – rather like the tattoos the Dalish liked - traced over it in black ink. Despite them, she was lovely, her skin faintly golden, her features small and perfect. She wore red robes of a strange cut; they looked a little like mage robes, and there _was_ a plain staff strapped to her back, but Hawke could sense no magic at all about her. She clutched an ugly little clay gargoyle to her chest.

An urgent cry came from the second one, encased in the heaviest-looking armour Hawke had ever seen. "Can!" it sounded like; Hawke crouched down beside her. "Can," she repeated, and Hawke had rarely heard such anguish in a voice. "S'rree."

Hawke would not have been herself if she could hear such pain and not attempt to heal it. "It's all right," she told the woman, whose dark eyes were wild. "Calm down."

"Can!" she insisted, and weakly tried to rise, but she could not even prop herself up on her elbow before she passed out.

"Well," Hawke said, a monosyllable of blank confusion.

"Well indeed," Varric agreed. "What have we got here?"

Hawke looked more closely at the second, smaller woman. A weird weapon strapped to her back that resembled nothing so much as a farmer's scythe; heavy armour; pale skin, the pointed ears of an elf, but without the characteristic high-bridged nose; hair black, although the sunlight made it look almost blue. Unlike the first woman, she did seem Fade-touched – but in a strange way that didn't make any sense. She looked like a skeleton covered in skin. Hawke had seen refugees on the verge of starvation in Darktown who had more flesh on their bones.

Hawke extended her magic. The first woman, the bald one – she was just unconscious and would stir soon. The second one, the elf... "She should be dead," Hawke whispered. "A body just can't survive this."

She hadn't noticed the others joining her about the strangers – Merrill and Isabela giggling over the bald woman, Varric standing and making mental notes, and Fenris crouched down at her side, frowning over the elf as though he found her personally offensive. "I have a theory, Hawke, if you care to hear it."

"Of course," Hawke said, as she gently insinuated her magic into the woman's body, looking for wounds or damage that she could heal, since she could not do anything about the starvation.

"Only once have I heard of people physically in the Fade."

"The Tevinter magisters who invaded the Golden City," Hawke finished his thought. "You think they are experimenting with it again?"

"It is possible," Fenris said, and indicated the woman in red. "We have a mage. We have a woman who appears to be an elf, who was supporting the mage when they came out of the Fade and has been starved to the point where only blood magic could be keeping her alive."

Hawke shook her head. "You can't nourish a person on magic alone."

"No," Fenris said, "but with enough blood magic, you can keep them in pain and unable to die. I have seen it done in Tevinter."

She winced. The idea, the imagery, was too strong. "I don't think so, Fenris. The one in red isn't even a mage. Even Varric has more of a connection to the Fade."

"Heard that," the dwarf commented.

"Tranquil?" Fenris suggested.

Hawke thought it over. "Possibly. It still makes no sense. And the elf has something, though... I'm not sure what, but it feels a little familiar." She sighed. "What do we do with them? Are they a threat, do you think?"

"Not the skinny one," Varric said. "A good sneeze and she'd snap in half. The other one isn't armed and we outnumber her. I say wake her up and let's have a chat."

"Do let's," Isabela purred. "I want to know how far those tattoos go."

"I've never met a human with vallaslin before," Merrill added.

Hawke turned her head; Fenris was still frowning, but he nodded. "Well, here goes," she said. The woman was already beginning to come to; Hawke hurried the process along with a small jolt of her magic.

The woman in red blinked brown eyes, dark as Hawke's own but decidedly almond-shaped, and slowly sat up. She looked at Varric, who'd cocked Bianca, and Isabela with her daggers, and held up her hands peaceably. This, naturally, caused the clay statuette she'd been clasping to tumble free. She looked down at it and gasped. "Gaji!" She gathered it up again, looking down at it as if heartbroken. "Gaji, I- Gum bag!"

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a look. Well, allowing for a truly barbarous accent, she was at least intelligible. ' _Gaji_ ' – or perhaps 'Kaji' –' _come back'_.

She made a few gestures, repeating some soft syllables Hawke couldn't hear, then her hands dropped. "My majig... Tarva!" the woman cried out as her head turned and she saw the other woman. She started to shift towards the elf, then seemed to remember Varric and Isabela. "Please, disrecard any prejudices you may have acainst my gind – I won't do anything but cheg on my friend."

Hawke nodded.

"Friend?" Fenris said, as if unconvinced. "Not a magister, then."

The woman knelt beside the elf, and checked her pulse. She sighed with relief – it seemed genuine to Hawke – to find one. Then she looked up at Hawke and Fenris. "There should be three of us. Where is can?"

Hawke blinked. "I beg your pardon?" Then she remembered how urgently the other woman had said the same word.

" 'Beg'," the bald woman repeated to herself. "Not 'bec'. I see." She spoke slowly, enunciating very carefully. "There should have been a man with Tarva and me. Ca- _Gann_. C-Grey hair, purple sgin. Skin. Have you seen him?"

"No," Hawke said, as gently as she could.

The woman blinked. "Oh, by all the Nine Hells – he was ahead of me! I..." her voice trailed off as she stared at the still face of the unconscious elf, and the little clay gargoyle that lay on the grass.

"Who are you? How did you come _physically_ through the Fade? What are you doing here?"

"Ah... my name is Safiya. I am a Red Wizard of Thay – but don't be alarmed. Unless you have hurt my friends, I mean you no harm."

"What's a Red Wizard of Thay when it's at home?" Isabela asked, using a dagger to clean under her fingernails.

"And why do you have vallaslin?" Merrill joined in.

Safiya stared at them all rather helplessly. "I am so g-confused. You haven't heard of my order? We have a terrible reputation all across Faerûn."

"I haven't heard of Faerûn either," Hawke told her.

"Then where in the Nine Hells am I?"

"I don't know where the Nine Hells are," Hawke told her, "but you are on Sundermount, near Kirkwall in the Free Marches. Thedas," she added, as Safiya kept shaking her head in bewilderment. Hawke sighed. "Okay, I can tell this is going to take a while to sort out, and sitting on a mountainside where the Veil is thin and behaving _very_ oddly isn't a great place to do it." He heard that faint grumble beside her that meant Fenris thought she was being far too trusting – as usual – and Varric was shaking his head to give the same warning.

"I didn't follow most of that," the bald woman said, "but I agree. You seem to be a spellcaster of some kind - are you a clerig? Can you heal Tarva? Even a Crate- sorry, _Greater_ Restoration would help."

Hawke shook her head as she tried to decipher this. "I am a mage, yes," she said, "and I specialise in healing, but there's nothing I can do for your friend – Tarva, you said? – and what do clerics have to do with it?"

"Right," Safiya said, picking up the ugly clay doll, her fingers caressing the curve of the head gently. "Never mind, then. Can you wake her up? I hate to do it – she won't be – well, she needs the rest – but I g-can't imagine getting her down a mountain like this."

"It is a simple matter," Fenris interjected, rather surprising Hawke, "as long as one does not attempt to carry her armour as well. I can carry her, if someone is prepared to drag the armour."

"You're awfully quick to suggest undressing her," Isabela said slyly. "I didn't know half-dead elves were your style, sweet thing."

Hawke ignored the pang of jealousy that had noted the exact same thing. It wasn't really her business, after all... and he was only doing it because he was still thinking of her as a victim of Tevinter blood magic.

"I'll help you," Safiya said. "I've helped her out of it more than once."

"Oh, really?" Isabela leered. "I appreciate a woman who knows her way –"

Hawke snapped at her to shut up as Fenris and Safiya bent to tend to Tarva's armour and Merrill picked up the little gargoyle. It wasn't as long as she'd expected before they had the armour pieces off, and Hawke flinched a bit. It was one thing to feel, magically, that the woman had practically starved to death, and another still to see all the damage that the full plate had hidden; the armour padding merely highlighted the emaciation. It made Safiya look rather sick. "I had no idea it had cotton – gotten – so bad. She never said anything..."

With a grunt, Fenris hoisted the unconscious woman across his narrow shoulders; Hawke picked up the scythe-like weapon; Varric and Safiya made a bundle of the armour, using the breastplate as a sort of sledge for the rest of it, taking a rope each; Merrill had the clay statue in one hand and the embrium they'd come to get in the first place in the other; and Isabela was being her usual, helpful self – which was to say, she wasn't being actively obstructive - and they set off down the mountain.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Hawke and her little group stopped to exchange pleasantries with the clan of wild elves – well, Safiya had to assume that's what they were, although like the other elves, they looked subtly wrong to her eyes – and she could have screamed. For the first time since that unfortunate incident in the Skein, the Red Wizard found herself wishing for Kaelyn. A half-competent cleric could have healed Tarva almost instantly – but if this world had none?

It had to be a different world – she'd studied enough of Faerûn's maps and never seen any of the names Hawke had mentioned, and the woman hadn't recognised the Nine Hells either. Besides, this was to be exile, according to Kelemvor. It made sense, of a kind.

Exile, not death, she reminded herself, and hoped she had it right. If he had wanted them dead, he could have simply seen to it. Safiya had to make herself believe it, that Tarva would survive even without proper aid, that Gann was not dead – next to her concerns for her friends, mourning the loss of her magic and of Kaji seemed selfish.

They both hurt, though. She had constructed Kaji out of twigs and clay herself, shaped and taught and loved him for years, her familiar, her pet, her friend. Her mother (it was still the easiest way to think of her) had been a cold, distant woman; Master Djafi, her first friend, had needed to keep his distance for fear of the usual Red Wizard politics taking note of his vulnerability; all she had truly had was Kaji and her studies of magic. The Weave, her source of power, did not exist here; she had no magic, and Kaji, who depended on the Weave for his animation, for his life – Kaji was dead.

She moved closer to the tall, white-haired elf who was carrying Tarva, who seemed no happier with the words passing between Hawke and the wild elves than Safiya felt. He shot a look at her, his green eyes (curiously round, as were the other elves'; a definite genetic type) warning her to keep her distance. "What's your name?" Safiya asked.

"I am called Fenris," he said; his voice was deep and rough, and it sounded as though he was growling at her.

Curious name – it reminded her of Fenrir, a wolf-spirit of unsurpassed power and viciousness that Gann had mentioned once, and who had been, she thought, among Okku's spirit army – and curious phrasing, too. He hadn't claimed it was his name, and that was just the sort of hair-splitting Safiya could normally spend hours mulling over, but then Hawke concluded her little chat and they started off.

She listened carefully to the group, who fell as easily into banter as she and the others had, making note of their quicker speech and thin-accented Common. The little tattooed elf was Merrill; she moved in the darts and flutters of a bird, and appeared to have the brains of one as well. The dwarf (beardless and less hearty than any Safiya had met before) was Varric, and she was not going to like him. He had already nicknamed her 'Baldy'; not that Safiya was sensitive about her lack of hair –she preferred it – but it was rather missing the point. Fenris was the taciturn elf with the white tattoos, and he did not like her. She wasn't sure why, but didn't care much. Hawke seemed friendly enough, and Safiya wouldn't have minded a few hours of technical discussion with her about the world they'd been sent to and its magic. Then there was the half-dressed woman –

"Sweetness," the woman purred, and slipped an arm about her waist. "You look so deep in thought, so forlorn. Can't I cheer you up?"

"Removing your arm would make for a good beginning," Safiya told her. She could handle this sort of thing with more grace, usually, but between Tarva, Gann and Kaji – even Akachi – she had no patience left. "You may remove it from my waist, or I will remove it from your shoulder." There was a chuckle behind her – Varric's, Safiya thought, but wasn't sure.

"Ooh, sounds _rough,"_ the woman said, but did as she was told. "I do like rough. Tell me, sweetness, where else do you shave?"

"I can turn you into a small pile of libidinous dust. Geep this up, and I will." Last time Safiya had attempted a bluff like that, it had gone terribly.

She pouted. "Well, if you change your mind, you let me know. Ask for Isabela at the Hanged Man."

"That would be the local festhall, I take it," she said.

"Leave Baldy alone, Rivaini," Varric said peaceably. "I get the feeling she's had a hard day."

"You have no idea," Safiya said, and left it at that, for they were approaching the city gates.

"Hawke," a red-headed guard with freckles and a square jaw greeted the mage, and nodded at Safiya, the pile of armour, and Fenris's limp burden. "What kind of trouble are you bringing into my city _this_ time?"

"Nothing you can't handle, Aveline," Hawke said affectionately.

"Of course," she agreed, "but that's not exactly an answer to my question, Hawke."

"Well, this is Safiya and her friend Tarva. I'll tell you all the rest of it later – my place, once you get off-duty?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Fenris re-settled Tarva over his shoulders. She showed no signs of coming around, Safiya noticed, and tried not to worry. "Are we going to the abomination's clinic?"

That was two words Safiya didn't think really went together. Abominations were left-over magical beasts, living weapons forged in the beginning of the world. She couldn't imagine – didn't really want to – one of them capable of running anything that could be called a 'clinic'. More thoughts to distract herself.

"No," Hawke said, as she led them through the wide, clean streets of the city, sweltering in a humid summer heat. "I doubt Anders can do anything magically for her that I can't. Her best chance is rest and regular small meals, and between the estate and Bodahn, I'm better set up for that sort of thing."

"Ladyhawke won't mind an extra house guest or two?" Varric asked.

"Mother's used to it," Hawke smiled. "I've been bringing home sick kittens and crippled birds for nursing since I was four. All right by you, Safiya?"

It took her a moment to understand that the woman was offering her a place to stay while she got Tarva back to health – as off-handedly as she might have offered Safiya a scrap of food she didn't want. Her instincts were to distrust kindnesses so freely offered, to look for a trap... but there was no doubt that the woman meant it for whatever reason, and Tarva needed it.

"Thank you," Safiya said. "If there's anything I can do..."

"I want to hear the full story," Hawke said.

"I gan- sorry, can – do that." Safiya sighed. "But I don't think you'll believe it."

"Better and better, Baldy. Are there dragons in it?"

"No."

"Such a shame," the dwarf said. "Aveline's off just before dusk, right? I've got some loose ends to tie up, but I'll bring Blondie up to speed and come up through the Darktown entrance. He still has the key, right?"

"Unless he's lost it," Hawke said. "You never know."

"True. Daisy, Rivaini?"

"Somebody has to help with the armour, Varric, it looks awfully heavy," Merrill said.

"I'll come with you," Isabela answered. "I could do with a drink and maybe a sailor before we get into it. So to speak."

"Isabela..." Hawke groaned.

"Oh, did I miss something?" Merrill chirped. "Something dirty?"

"Kitten, never change." The swarthy woman darted a grin at them – and winked at Safiya – before she and Varric took off.

"We're not far," Hawke reassured them, adjusting Tarva's scythe as they climbed a flight of stairs. "What is this, anyway?"

"That's Tarva's weapon – surely you have scythes here?"

"Farmer's tools, yes, but ... this is a _weapon_?"

"Big cutting blade on a stick?" Things couldn't be _that_ different here. "Of course it's a weapon."

"Anything can be a weapon, if you need one badly enough," Fenris said.

"Even a duck?" Merrill asked eagerly. "A fluffy piece of wool? What about a butterfly?"

Fenris just growled.

"We're here," Hawke announced cheerfully, and opened a wooden door, set into the ubiquitous white stone of the city. The wall was covered in vines, and a crest of two stylised birds – hawks, Safiya supposed – hung beside the door.

It took an instant for her eyes to adjust to the interior – not that it was dim, but the city was glaring. "You've had luck on your travels, messere?" a deep voice asked.

"Of both varieties, as usual," Hawke told him. "Safiya, this is Bodahn, my manservant. Don't know what I'd do without him." Safiya nodded politely to the dwarf, who was openly gawking. "This is his son, Sandal."

The younger dwarf turned watery blue eyes up to her and said hesitantly, "Hello."

Something not quite right, there, Safiya thought, but Hawke was leading them on through the wide, spacious mansion. "The library's in there –" she pointed, and Safiya determined instantly that she would get better acquainted with that room sooner rather than later. Books held everything, and there was a lot she needed to know – like how to find Gann. "- Mother and I are up the stairs there, but come this way. Kitchen," Hawke pointed out another room. "There are several bedrooms here – technically they're for the servants, but they're warmer than mine in winter. Bodahn and Sandal share that one, and I'd like to put Tarva right next to the kitchen. Choose any of the others you like-"

"I'll stay with her," Safiya interrupted.

"Even better," Hawke said, smiling her approval. "In here, Fenris," she said, and held the door for him. With a grunt, he slung her down onto the bed.

"Thank you," Safiya told him, with somewhat awkward sincerity, realising Merrill had disappeared as she struggled to dump the armour in a corner of the cosy little room.

He shifted from one foot to another, apparently unsure how to take this.

Hawke leant the scythe beside a handy wall, and touched Tarva's forehead with two fingers that glowed faintly blue. "She's gone deep," Hawke muttered, almost to herself. "If she's not coming around by the time the others get here, I'll have to force her up. Not ideal." There was a whoop from outside the room, accompanied by a creak, and Hawke raised her head. "Merrill-! If she and Sandal are swinging on the chandelier _again_ – look, Safiya, I've got to go deal with this and talk to Mother – I'll be back soon. Make yourself at home, and talk to your friend. It may help bring her up to consciousness." Another whoop, this one considerably higher in pitch. "Maker's hairy arse, they'll have the house down in a minute!"

She scurried out, as Safiya perched herself at the edge of the bed, and Fenris trailed behind her. The elf paused in the doorway. "Are you a mage?"

Safiya smiled mirthlessly. "Not here."

"I will be watching you," he said, and left.

It was rather like talking to Tarva – on a bad day, and on a subject she really didn't want to discuss. Safiya bent to make her friend a little more comfortable. "Come on," she murmured. "I have spent far too long watching you sleep. You owe me so many night watches, you and Gann, so wake up and collect them. Don't... don't leave me alone here..."

"Safiya?" Merrill said hesitantly from the doorway. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but Hawke reminded me I was still looking after your statue and told me to come give it back. After she made me stop swinging on the chandelier." She advanced into the room, holding out poor Kaji like a peace offering. "I'm sorry," she added. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop – although I don't know why we say that, it'd be awfully noisy if I dropped a roof – do you miss your clan very much?"

"What clan?" Safiya asked, snatching Kaji out of her hands.

"Oh, I thought you were – I'm sorry. I've put my foot in it again, haven't I? It's your vallaslin," she said, and indicated the tattoos that lined her face. "I don't recognise the pattern and I thought you were from some clan like mine, even if you are human."

"Red Wizards shave their scalps and tattoo them for greater power," Safiya answered wearily. "And I don't really miss the Academy."

"Oh, I – I'm sorry. You just looked so sad. I thought- oh, hello Hawke!" the elf said as Hawke and an elegant older woman, grey-haired, approached.

"Mother, this is Safiya, and that's Tarva. They'll be staying with us, at least until Tarva's back on her feet."

"Maker's mercy," Hawke's mother – Leandra, Safiya remembered – muttered, peering at Tarva's skeletal frame. "The poor dear."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Hawke," Safiya said, dredging up the words from somewhere. "We won't be any trouble."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Leandra said. "The house is big – without my daughter's strays to fill it up, it would get depressing. You're welcome here." She patted Hawke on the shoulder. "Now I must go; I'm expected for dinner and a musical evening at the de Launcet's. Don't wait up for me."

"I won't," Hawke smiled. "But I may be up anyway; you'll need the moral support if Dulcie sings."

Leandra shuddered in a very ladylike way. "Don't tempt the Maker, dear."

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dusk fell suddenly on the city, and Hawke's friends came clattering into the estate with it. Their noise jolted Safiya from a sleep she didn't remember falling into. She shook her head, straightened herself up, and met Tarva's gaze. The dark blue eyes were fixed on her, and the rest of her gaunt face was utterly unreadable.

It was a trick Tarva had – only the very strongest of emotions ever registered on her face, and even those were usually only subtle changes. Safiya had envied her the knack, sometimes - she knew her own face was far too open for a Red Wizard's – often at the same time she wished fervently that she could guess what her friend was thinking.

"I just woke up," the half-elf said quietly. "Where are we, Safiya? And where is – what happened to – oh, _gods, I remember –"_

Her eyes widened and for an instant, a spasm of raw grief and guilt contorted her angular features. Then she turned her face away.

"We've left Faerûn entirely," Safiya told her as gently as possible. She was still so weak, and that _look_ on her face... for Gann, it had to be. What had happened to him? "The world is Thedas; this city is Kirkwall. We are in the house of a healer-mage – although apparently not a cleric – named Hawke, who has volunteered to help until you've recovered. I am fine, but I have no magic – the Weave doesn't exist here, so I suppose the mages are sorcerers or warlocks, perhaps even clerics under a different name." She paused and held up the little clay statue. "Kaji is dead."

"Safiya. I'm sorry."

The Red Wizard shrugged – not to dismiss Tarva's sympathy, but because she didn't know how else to respond. "Tarva – where is Gann?"

"I don't know," her friend answered, her voice toneless as her face was empty. "Lost, gone perhaps. My fault."

"What in the Nine Hells _happ_ -"

"Oh, good!" Hawke said, bursting in the doorway. "You're awake, Tarva - I was getting worried. Everyone's here, Safiya, and eager to hear this unbelievable story you've promised." And they all came crowding in – Fenris and Varric, Isabela and Aveline, Merrill and a blonde man (Anders?) Safiya hadn't seen before. Hawke sat herself cross-legged on the end of Tarva's bed. "In the immortal words of the Beloved King, 'begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.' Don't leave anything out; we're all horribly curious."

Safiya glanced at Tarva, saw the tiny nod of her head, and took a deep breath.


	3. Safiya Passes a Perform Check

Safiya: Perform *success* : (7+ 0 = 7 vs. DC: 5)

* * *

Safiya took a moment to sort her thoughts into order, looking around the little room at the people gathered to listen to her. Hawke eager and curious, like Merrill; Varric with quill and paper propped against his knee; Isabela lounging against a wall in a pose that showed even more of her skin than usual; Fenris and Aveline rather more difficult to read, but waiting. Tarva sat upright beside her, pale and neutral.

If she had been lecturing her students at the Academy, where would she have begun? "What's your stance on other worlds?" Safiya asked.

"Other worlds?" Hawke repeated blankly.

"That's _definitely_ a new one to me," Varric said. "Couldn't you have started with something more traditional, like 'once upon a time', or "no shit, there I was'?"

"Right," Safiya sighed. She had her work cut out for her. "Please don't interrupt, then; suspend your disbelief and hold your questions until the end of the lecture."

"Lecture?" Hawke grinned. Technically, both an interruption and a question.

"Story, if you prefer. I was a senior instructress at the Academy, and I am accustomed to referring to the oral presentation of information to a group of people a lecture. May I begin now?"

"Sorry, sorry," Hawke held up her hands. "Shutting up."

"Tarva and I come from a world that is not this one. Call it Toril. The largest continent on its face is known as Faerûn; Tarva comes from a land called Neverwinter and I from Thay. The two countries are very nearly on opposite side of the world, but they are both part of Faerûn. With me so far?"

-0-0-0-0-0-

Hawke was, but her mind had rather choked on the whole 'different world' bit. Possibly the bald woman was lying – but to what purpose? She didn't sound mad, either. She was impossible to dismiss and almost as difficult to believe. 'Suspend disbelief', indeed – more like hang it by the neck until it died, and leave it rotting on the gibbet.

"The people of Toril agnowledge the existence of... hmmm," Safiya paused for a moment, "ah, several hundred deities – gods and goddess and other divine _things._ " So they were pantheistic, like the Dalish? Hawke didn't have any trouble accepting that, even if 'several hundred' seemed a little excessive, and she had to wonder exactly what qualified as a 'divine _thing_ '. She stifled a mental image of people prostrating themselves in front of a deific boot... "Most choose one god to worship – for example, Tarva here serves Chauntea, a goddess of the earth and grain." Hawke shot a glance at the elf woman. The expressionless cast of the gaunt face made her skin crawl – she really did look more dead than alive. "Those who refuse to worship a god are condemned to torture and slow oblivion in the Wall of the Faithless.

"It started several centuries ako – er, ago – with Myrkul, who was at that time god of the dead – that is, he judged the souls of the dead - and his high priest Akachi." Something touched her face when she said that name, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. "Akachi was utterly loyal to his god, but he was also a man, and he was in love with a woman named Nefris."

Hawke peeked around at her friends. Merrill was enraptured, or course; Varric was too, in his own way. Aveline had that twitching look of slight impatience, the one that said 'You can start getting to the point any minute now', and Anders was reserving judgment until she did, and Fenris – Fenris was frowning slightly, but surprisingly intent.

"Nefris was the founder of the Academy of Shapers and Binders – a school for Red Wizards who were interested in specialising in the art of spirit manipulation. It's fascinating, absorbing, rewarding work, full of puzzles and –" Tarva coughed, just slightly; Safiya glanced at her. "Sorry. It can also be dangerous, particularly the high-end research Nefris was pursuing – the amount of magical energy she was handling was enormous, and the level of concentration necessary to manipulate it phenomenal. One day, at a crucial moment, her mind fogged and she lost control. The resulting magical backlash killed her."

"Mages!" Fenris muttered, barely audible; Safiya didn't seem to notice.

"Being a rational woman, not superstitious, she had never devoted herself to a god, and when she stood before Myrkul, in his grey City of Judgement, she was judged Faithless and sentenced to the Wall. And Akachi, her lover – he rebelled against the decree of his god. He raised an army to bring down the Wall and free her."

Brave man, Hawke thought, even the story did remind her a little of those Tevinter magisters again. Still, if you were going to invade the city of a deity, she supposed love was a better motive than power.

"There are ways the gods can be killed," Safiya continued, and Hawke blinked. "but... well, that just isn't one of them. It had all been Myrkul's plan from the beginning, you see. He clouded Nefris's mind at the crucial moment as a test of Akachi's loyalty, and the priest made his allegiance clear. When Akachi brought his army into the City of Judgement, Myrkul's forces followed. They pretended to chase Akachi, until he freed Nefris's soul from the Wall and sealed his treachery to their god – and then they took him."

For the first time, Safiya's voice faltered. "And Myrkul... Myrkul made a monstrosity of him. He sealed Akachi in the Wall, flesh and blood, to be broken and consumed, and when there was nothing left of him but a husk filled with the very hunger of the Wall... Myrkul pulled him out." She looked at Tarva; the elf shook her head very slightly.

"That was the beginning of the spirit-eater curse, the Hunger," Safiya told them. "It chose a host randomly. The host's soul was displaced and sent to fill Akachi's place in the Wall, while the insatiable Hunger drove its victim to devour spirits and souls. If the victim embraced the curse and fed at will, the spirit-eater took them over completely, and eventually killed them. If they fought it, denied it, it consumed them more quickly – but most went mad from the effort and succumbed all the same. Most often, in whichever host, it found its way to the land of Rashemen, which has many spirit guardians – a rich hunting ground."

"Wait just a moment," Hawke said, holding up her hand. "I'm not interrupting, but just wait a moment." She scurried out of the room and into the kitchen. It was not so far away that she couldn't hear Varric pouring out a stream of questions. He must have been understanding more than she was; Hawke had decided to treat it as another wild story, and hope it made sense in the end. Her mind was on more practical matters, anyway. The broth was just ready, and Safiya's voice was growing husky; both she and Tarva needed water. Hawke looked at the bowl she'd filled, the water glasses, the pitcher. Two trips, then.

"Hawke," Fenris's voice rumbled from behind her.

She turned and smiled at him. "Fenris. Perfect. Would you mind taking those glasses and the pitcher for me?"

They trailed back in; Safiya was looking rather harried as Varric and Merrill plied her with questions and Isabela inserted innuendos. "Here," Hawke said, and handed the broth to Tarva.

"Thank you," the elf said quietly – the first words Hawke had ever heard her say, and they were so soft she nearly missed them. Her hands curled like dead leaves around the bowl. Safiya expressed her own gratitude and drained her glass. "Hmmmm... where was I? I think I'll spare you Araman's role. Let us return to Nefris, then. She went back to the Academy –"

"Hang on a second, Baldy." Varric held up a hand. "She was dead."

Safiya glared at him. She really _didn't_ like interruptions. "Which is not a major problem for a half-decent cleric, and some races just have the ability naturally. Back at the Academy, she began to plan a way to undo the spirit-eater curse and end Akachi's torment. It took her several hundred years – before you ask, yes, that's quite possible even for a human. As part of her plan, she split parts off her soul and embodied them as different people. It's a difficult process, but Nefris was mistress of the art."

Hawke was listening – really – but she was also keeping an eye on her patient. Tarva ate slowly and methodically, without any sign of appetite, which didn't surprise Hawke at all; but apparently the elf was wise enough to know that she needed it. An obedient patient was a nice change – all of her friends were absolutely terrible ones, and none of them worse than Anders, although Fenris and Aveline gave him pretty stiff competition.

She was also wondering just what this ancient tragic romance had to do with the two strangers who'd come through the Fade.

"To one part, thereafter known as Lienna, she gave her impartial curiosity, her imagination, her sense of wonder and theatrics. Lienna went to Rashemen to monitor the spirit-eater, and await the moment to act." Safiya took another drink. "To another, who also bore the name of Nefris, she gave her resolve and determination, her sense of duty, and the greater part of her magic and knowledge. Nefris held the Academy and made certain her older self – I'll refer to her as the Founder from now on – was left in peace to work. These three – Founder, Lienna and Nefris – knew the whole story, knew all the plan and what had to be done. But there was one more fragment."

"Ha!" Varric exclaimed, making Merrill – and actually Fenris, Hawke and Anders too – jump. "I bet I can guess what that one was called, Baldy."

"Then possibly you are smarter than you look, which would not be difficult. The last fragment was the Founder's re-creation, the best she could make, of the woman Akachi had fallen in love with, and was kept innocent of all that the Founder had planned. Nefris raised her as a daughter – in a sense, she was."

"And _her_ name was Safiya," Varric said, with an air of great wisdom.

Hawke was never sure whether to be in awe or appalled by the logical jumps that dwarf could make.

Safiya narrowed her eyes at him. "Yes. If I may continue? Lienna managed to imprison the Hunger in the barrow of Okku, the bear-god, king of all the spirits in Rashemen, and there it waited while the Founder scryed Toril for a person of suitable integrity and strength to host the spirit-eater and survive long enough for her purposes."

Varric opened his mouth – to insert another smart comment, no doubt – and Tarva stared him down. Hawke was impressed; she'd never seen anyone except Aveline do that before. Varric shut his mouth, and the elf went back to her broth.

"Eventually she found what she was looking for, a veritable hero – but if I begin on the whole business with the King of Shadows, we'll be here until morning. I don't even know most of it." She cast another glace at Tarva, who returned it dispassionately. "As you seem to have surmised, Varric, it _was_ Tarva the Founder chose. She waited for an opportune moment, then Nefris sent her servants through a magical portal to abduct her."

Merrill squeaked at 'magical portal'. Hawke eyed her dubiously, and Safiya was doing much the same thing. Isabela just patted her shoulder.

Well, it did seem that Safiya was approaching the point, now – at the very least, both of them were in the story now.

"Her servants dumped Tarva in the deepest part of Okku's barrow, where the Hunger took her and she became the spirit-eater – not that either of us knew anything of that at the time. Nefris sent me to guide her out, and we ran into Okku on the way, who said there was something very wrong with Tarva and tried to kill us both. He wasn't at his strongest, only just having just woken up from centuries asleep – or dead – and we defeated him easily."

"Wait – this is the god-bear again? I though a god was more difficult to kill?"

Safiya rolled her eyes, but answered Varric's question amiably enough. "Yes, it was, but we didn't kill him, we just ... dispersed him for a while. We travelled to Mulsantir, where Lienna was waiting to instruct us both – or so we believed." Safiya's eyes sparked with hate. "Another Red Wizard – one I knew - had beaten us there, and Lienna was dead. He claimed that Nefris was as well, that there had been a coup at the Academy. He also tried to kill us, but being the most worthless lump of troll sputum ever to bribe his way into graduating, failed. It left Tarva and I rather at a dead end – no pun intended. We could not even question Lienna's actors, because they were gone."

Safiya poured herself another glass of water. "Outside the theatre, we were confronted by three witches – the rulers of Rashemen – who told us that Okku was outside the c-gates screaming for blood, and they guessed it was our fault. We would not be allowed to speak to Lienna's troupe until we'd dealt with Okku – or, as they hoped, were killed by him. They did, however, allow us to find some people to help us. There was Kaelyn the Dove, a priestess of Ilmater – basically a healer," Safiya said, with a nod to Hawke. It gave Anders rather a 'hey, healer over here too!' look for a moment. "- for all that she carried a mace and wore full plate. She joined us because she thought we could help her with her Crusade to bring down the Wall of the Faithless – but more on that later. Much more. And in a jail cell, we met Gannayev-of-Dreams – " There was the faintest of sounds from Tarva, and although her narrow face still showed no expression, she was staring fixedly at her near-empty bowl. Safiya reached out to take her friend's hand. "That is, Gann. He'd annoyed the locals to the point they imprisoned him – not that it would have taken much, you understand. The hags prey on the Rashemi, and their half-breed sons aren't welcome anywhere."

"Another one, Baldy. When you say hags, you aren't talking about ugly old women, are you?"

"Yes, I am – but they're a race of very magical, very dangerous, ugly old women, who walk in dreams and take what they want. They also reproduce by seducing men and eating them alive afterwards."

Hawke's friends, each according to nature, made sounds of disgust and horror.

Safiya nodded grimly. "Hardly welcome neighbours. A daughter thus conceived grows into another hag, a son into a hagspawn, such as Gann; although he isn't exactly like most of his kind, being both reasonably intelligent and a dreamwalker. So, before we took a detour into hag biology... Yes. The four of us went forth and met Okku in battle." Safiya shook her head. "He'd brought an army of spirits with him, and until we slew them, he was invincible. Tarva held Okku, Gann and I dealt with the army, and Kaelyn healed us up. Okku surrendered and insisted that we kill him. Tarva refused. And that," the Red Wizard said slowly, "was when the Hunger woke. The form of the spirit-eater – think of an inky, malevolent cloud with tentacles – burst from Tarva and reached out to devour Okku." She looked at her friend, and Hawke could read the deep affection between them, and something that was nearly awe. "She fought it back down. You have no idea what that cost –"

Tarva shook her head. "Go on."

"Very well. In exchange for her mercy, Okku vowed to travel with us and free her of the curse. It gets a bit tangled from here, and most of our travels aren't really relevant-" Varric protested at that - " – so I'll summarise. Without Lienna's guidance, we wandered around Rashemen, picking up a clue here and another one here. Tarva began to recover some of Akachi's memories. Finally, we were directed to the magical portal Nefris had been using to visit with Lienna, and we used it to return to the Academy. Nefris had managed to seal a door and another portal for us before her death, and we passed through it." Safiya rubbed her tattooed scalp. "We found ourselves on Myrkul's corpse."

There had to be something wrong with that sentence.

"Wait," Varric said. " _Dead_ god?"

"I told you it was possible. It's a much longer story, but yes, Myrkul was killed some centuries after Akachi's Crusade, and his post as god of the dead was taken by Kelemvor. Where was I? Yes. Imagine, if you will, the spine and four arms of a skeleton whose head is larger than this house, whose eyes burn with blue fire, and who _hates_ you with all the weight of a god – a dead god, but he wasn't gone. It wasn't a comfortable interview. Myrkul enjoyed gloating, and he had plenty to gloat about. He told us almost everything – about Akachi and his punishment, and about the Hunger that Tarva bore. Including the fact that there was no cure. She would die of it, the curse would find a new victim, and her soul would rot in the Wall of the Faithless." Safiya half-shrugged, a restless, uneasy movement. "Unless... if she followed in Akachi's footsteps and led another Crusade, she _might_ be able to get to her soul before it was too late, and cast out the spirit-eater to find some other victim." Safiya laughed suddenly. "And then Tarva woke the Hunger and put a final end to Myrkul."

"Now, that's poetic justice," Varric muttered approvingly.

"Exactly," Safiya said, with some satisfaction. "He had it – and more – coming. Well. We left that place, and reached the sanctum, where the Founder had been hiding and working for all those years. She filled in all the gaps that Myrkul had not – exactly who, or what, I was, for a start. But Myrkul had told her that the curse would end when Tarva reclaimed her soul, so we knew he'd lied to one of us." She shrugged again. "Either way, we had to assault the City of Judgement. The Founder told us where to find a Gate, and we left her.

"And the next day we crossed to the land of the dead to virtually declare war on the god of the dead. Kaelyn was ecstatic; the rest of us... weren't. The chances of any of us surviving a rebellion like that weren't good, but we had to try. At the city's gates, Kelemvor's defenders suggested to Tarva that she could join them instead. It was a very good offer," Safiya told them. "Don't commit suicide by opposing a god on his own territory, don't trust a dead god full of hatred and deceit, earn Kelemvor's gratitude – and make no mistake, as the current god of the dead, Kelemvor could have undone Myrkul's curse easily. Everybody would have been happy – well, almost everybody."

"But?" Varric asked. Either Safiya had grown resigned to the dwarf's interruptions, Hawke thought, or she was forgiving him for the sake of his clear enthusiasm.

"Kaelyn forced us to attack the city," the Red Wizard told him, almost spitting the words out. "I've never seen a more despicable piece of emotional blackmail, and I will never forgive her for it. Well. We ran around causing havoc and meeting with surprisingly little resistance, until Kelemvor sent word that he'd had enough; Tarva would be permitted to retrieve her soul." Safiya shook her head, her eyes distant. "You can't imagine the state we found it in – and even once we'd dragged it from the Wall, it wasn't over. This bit... I don't know." She turned to look at Tarva. "What happened, when you fell and wouldn't respond? Where you dreaming? Was that why Gann collapsed too?"

Tarva laid her empty bowl aside and was silent for a moment. She spoke slowly and reluctantly, weighing each word carefully. Safiya had commanded their attention, with the practiced ease of a teacher; the elf's voice, by contrast, was so soft and hesitant the effect was almost mesmeric. "The spirit-eater was still within my soul, and somehow, I went within to combat it. Manifestations of the Hunger were attacking, feeding on me. I had to stop them before they did any more damage. And then G-" her voice broke. Only the slightest fracture, only a moment's pause. "- _he_ was there with me. We fought the Hunger back. Eventually we had it cornered in the deepest part of my soul. The Red Woman, Nefris – or Akachi's memory of her – she was there. Those mask pieces, Safiya... they were actually the last fragments of his soul. We used them to restore him to the man he had been."

"Oh," Safiya said, slowly, wondering. "So _that's_ what they were."

Tarva nodded, and very loudly said nothing more.

Safiya took the hint and picked up the story. "Well, once Tarva and Gann had woken up, Kelemvor told us that justice demanded we would still be punished for our rebellion. Some of us, anyway - he simply returned Okku to Rashemen. Kaelyn he kept with him, and good riddance. He said that Gann, Tarva and I were to be exiled, and that, I suppose, is how we came to be here." She frowned. "But I don't understand how. Tarva, what happened? How did we leave the Fugue Plane?"

"And what were you doing physically in the Fade?" Hawke asked – that was the bit she really wanted to know, and they hadn't said a word about it.

Tarva closed her eyes. If her words had been painful before, now she sounded as though her mouth was full of briars. "Kelemvor teleported us outside his city, and we started to walk. _He_ ," – there was a particular emphasis on the pronoun... she had to be referring to Gann. She'd choked on his name before. "sensed a dream – a very strong one. _He_ rushed towards it. We crossed some sort of border. _He_ collapsed, wouldn't respond. Safiya was only a moment behind, and when she crossed over, she collapsed too. I don't know why I didn't." She took a shaky breath. "I don't think we were still in the Fugue Plane, although I could see the City of Judgement in the sky above us. Even the light had changed – all green and yellow instead of grey."

Hawke stared at the elf. That sounded like the Fade, complete to the Black City in the sky, even if she called it differently. Was the elf seriously suggesting The Fade _led_ somewhere?

"I slung your arm over my shoulder, Safiya, and _his_ , and tried to drag you both. But you and the armour were so heavy, and I had no strength. I don't think I managed more than a couple of steps before the ground quaked, and I stumbled. I lost my grip, and I fell through a hole in the world. I realised a moment later that I'd managed to keep you and I'd lost _him_ , and that I was somewhere else, and there were people, and the hole was gone –"

Hawke couldn't take listening to that painful recitation for one moment longer. " – which is when we found you. We'll find him too."

Tarva's eyes opened, dark and haunted, fixed on Hawke. She said only, "Thank you."

"Hawke..." Anders said softly, "I don't think distance means anything in the Fade. It could have spat him out anywhere – Kirkwall, the Deep Roads, Nevarra, Ferelden."

She glared at him. That wasn't something that had needed saying right then.

"I could ask Justice to help," he suggested tentatively.

"No," Hawke vetoed the suggestion immediately. "You know how I feel about that demon."

"He's not _exactly_ a-"

"I said no." She rose to pick up Tarva's bowl, and eyed the elf professionally. "That's probably enough for now – I doubt you'd be able to keep anything more down. Could you sleep?"

Safiya laughed, a weary, half-bitter sound. "We were fighting the Crusade _today._ We're both exhausted. I could sleep for a week, and I don't think Tarva's slept properly for days."

"Then that's probably best," Hawke said, and stood to shoo her friends out of the room.

Varric paused in the doorway. "Just out of interest, Paragon, falling for the guy – when exactly did that happen?"

" _Varric!_ " Hawke very nearly slapped him.

Tarva just looked up, her face set like stone. "I cannot say. But it wasn't until the Academy that I knew."

Hawke shoved him away, and apologised for her friend's tactlessness.

"What?" Varric asked, when they'd regrouped in the library, leaving the strangers alone. "You can't tell me you weren't wondering the same thing."

"Which thing?" Aveline asked. "I have several questions myself. Are they telling the truth? Are they dangerous? What do we do with them?"

"I believe them," Hawke said instantly, " _probably_ not, and help. In that order."

"Yeah, but you're a sucker for a sob story, Hawke," Varric said. "I could talk you out of your last copper without even trying."

"Maybe," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean they're lying. What could they possibly gain from spinning a tale like this? Surely if they wanted something they'd make up something that made more sense – I mean, dead gods and curses and split souls and crusades and walls!"

Varric grinned. "You know, I thought _I_ was good. I couldn't have invented half of that."

"So it's actually true," Hawke nodded, although she knew it only half-proved her point, if it did that much.

"They could be putting you off-guard," Fenris said, staring at the empty fireplace. "They are in your home, Hawke."

"You think they're a threat?" Hawke laughed. "In her current state, I doubt Tarva could manage the stairs without falling on her face."

"And the mage?" Fenris pressed.

"I don't know what a Red Wizard is, but whatever she means by that, she isn't a mage." Hawke cast a glance at Anders and Merrill – not that their opinions would convince Fenris at all. "Right?"

"You're closer to being a mage than Safiya is," Anders told him.

"But Fenris isn't a mage at all!" Merrill protested.

"That was his point, Kitten."

"Oh."

"She might have some other way of working magic," Fenris said. "Something foreign, something you cannot detect or guard against."

"That would be wonderful!" Hawke found herself smiling at the possibility. "I'll ask her about it tomorrow."

Fenris turned away, muttering something in Arcanum that Hawke had heard often enough to tentatively translate as 'stubborn idiot'.

"But it would be, Fenris. A form of magic that didn't have anything to do with the Fade wouldn't attract demons. I wonder if she could teach me."

"They left an awful lot out of that story," Isabela spoke up. "Not just all the boring bits, like 'and then we all brushed our teeth', but actual important stuff."

"Nice spot, Rivaini."

Aveline stared at Hawke with her patented Aveline 'no nonsense and don't you dare try to wriggle out of this' look. "Hawke, is there actually any point talking about this? Will you listen to advice at all?"

"Probably not," Hawke answered cheerfully. "They need me, Aveline. I can help them. But as usual, it's entirely up to you guys just how much you want to get involved in this particular wild nug chase."

"I am with you, Hawke." Fenris said, his green eyes looking straight into hers. She felt lighter, suddenly.

"Couldn't pay me a... moderate amount to miss it," Varric declared. "I want the whole tale. It'll make me famous, Hawke. Well, famous-er."

"There's no such word, my trusty dwarf," she laughed.

"There will be soon. I might use it for a title."

"Me too," Isabela said.

"You're going to use 'Famous-er' for a title too?" Merrill asked.

"I'm going to get into that lovely red skirt, that's what I'm going to do," the pirate told her.

"I don't think it would fit you." Merrill pondered this a moment. "And I don't think Safiya looked like the kind of person who likes to share her clothes with other people."

Isabela hugged the little elf. "Kitten, you are a thing of beauty and a joy forever."

Merrill looked over the pirate's shoulder at Hawke, her eyes wide and a little sad. "And you don't want me to help, do you?"

"Have you given up blood magic?"

"Hawke, it's –"

" _Merrill."_

"No."

"Then I don't want you," Hawke said. She hated doing that to Merrill, who was by far the nicest and most harmless blood mage she'd ever met, but her stance was clear: as long as the Dalish was involved in blood magic, they didn't work together. She still considered Merrill a friend, and sometimes even took her outside the city, but she _loathed_ blood magic. It was bad enough being an apostate and keeping company with Anders without being caught with an actual maleficar in the midst of her grisly business. She had her mother to look after.

Speaking of apostates... "Anders?"

"Things are busy at the moment, Hawke," the blonde mage said, running a hand over his hair. "That sickness in Darktown looks right on the verge of becoming an epidemic. I don't have a lot of free time. Will you still be coming in to help?"

"As if I'd miss my lessons," Hawke retorted. "I may be a little late tomorrow, though, given my guests. Aveline?"

"Somebody has to keep you out of mischief, Hawke." The captain sighed. "This is going to play havoc with my rosters, though."

"Rearrange them, Lady Man-hands," Isabela sighed. " Really, what's the point of being the captain if you can't take advantage once in a while? Speaking of taking advantage, I noticed you looking out your window the other day."

"I always supervise training," Aveline said.

"I'm sure. And you always stare at one particular guard. His shirt off, all sweaty and shiny. Handling his great, big, _stiff_ sword -"

"Shut up, whore!"

"Ooh, temper, temper," she waggled her finger in front of Aveline's face. "That won't help you with your little problem, you know. Although I don't know if I'd call it a _little_ problem... have you seen the size of his feet? No matter what they say, it _is_ a good indicator- "

Aveline was about one breath away from punching Isabela when Hawke intervened. "While we're all here and Mother's out – anybody for Diamondback?"

"Not me," Aveline said. "I should get back to the barracks. Early patrol tomorrow."

"Will you walk me back?" Merrill asked the guard. "I lost my twine – actually, I think a kitten stole it, and I wish she'd stopped to chat. There's a lot of mice in my house, unless they're rats, and I think she'd like them better than twine."

"Merrill, the Alienage isn't anywhere n-" Aveline sighed. "Come on, then."

"Good night, everyone," Merrill said cheerfully, although there was still something wistful in her eyes.

" Good night, Hawke, Varric, Fenris, Anders," Aveline said.

Isabela donned an exaggerated pout. "Leaving me out? I may just cry myself to sleep."

"Good," Aveline said, and they left Hawke to a game of Diamondback that wasn't nearly as interesting as the mystery her two guests presented.


	4. Gann Makes his Saving Throws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to mention that the character Muiren who makes her first appearance here is rather a special case; when the wonderful Oleander's One guessed (the better part of a year ago, I think!) that the sequel to All It Takes would crossover with Dragon Age, I offered her a cameo. That's Muiren. Name and description were Ole's choice; her role was more-or-less a joint effort.

Gann: Reflex Save vs. the Fade : *success* (15 + 16 = 31 vs. DC: 25)

Gann: Will Save vs. insanity : *success* (17 + 25 = 42 vs. DC: 40)

* * *

When you touch something hot unexpectedly, your hand snatches itself back before the pain even registers. When you are tumbled into cold water, you instinctively hold your breath. Your reflexes act to protect you as best they can. It doesn't make the problem go away, of course; the fire still burns and you'll still drown if you can't swim, but it gives you a ghost of a chance.

That's what reflexes are for.

So when Gann stumbles into a dream of unparalleled strength and complexity, his mind protects itself from the overwhelming input by severing ties with his senses and curling in on itself, creating a small, black space where he can breathe, and think, and _survive_.

The first thing he knows is the darkness that surrounds him. A moment ago, he had been on the grey Fugue Plane with the tendrils of a dream reaching for him, Tarva's hand in his and Safiya behind them – and in the next, this little dark place. Nothing here except his thoughts – _no_. With absolute terror, he reaches for the Dreamer's Heart, and could almost weep with relief when the familiar warmth of Tarva's presence and of her love enfolds and steadies him.

What has - what has _happened_?

The dream, so strong and so very strange... he'd felt how powerful it was, and still he'd raced headlong into it. He hadn't prepared, he'd barely warned Tarva or Safiya, so certain of his own skills and Tarva's ability to anchor him. They'd done some incredible things in dreams, after all – they had freed a nascent dreamwalker from the prison of her own dream, and destroyed the aeons-old dreamscape of the Coven.

But neither Anya nor the hags had been so incredibly _strong_ – and then Gann knows. The dream he's stumbled into overwhelmed his defences, and he is down in the darkness hiding from it. Just a dream; all he has to do is wake.

He can't. Usually waking and returning to his body is a trifling effort of will, but now it feels as though nothing at all is happening – as though his skills are exactly as futile as a child's wishes.

Something is very, very wrong here...

And if a dream can overwhelm and trap him like this – he, who is a talented and experienced dreamwalker – what is it doing to the others? To Safiya, with her somewhat splintered soul, who knows nothing of dreamwalking and has no defences? To _Tarva_ , almost as ignorant as Safiya, whose peculiar combination of gifts barely qualifies her as a dreamwalker and surely leaves her uniquely vulnerable?

He has to find them, has to escape, can't afford to panic but he's beginning to –

\- and then the quiet flame that is Tarva's presence dims, and try as he might to be calm, to be rational, to hope, he cannot escape the horror of his instinctive reaction.

He is almost certain that he just felt her die.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Hawke let herself out the cellar door, and took the usual moment to adjust to the penetrating, ubiquitous reek of Darktown, about which the kindest thing that could be said was that it had a way of making you forget about your troubles. You were too busy trying to keep your eyes from watering.

"Morning, Anders!" she called out as she let herself into the clinic.

The blonde healer, looking vaguely rumpled as usual, appeared from the back room. "Hawke! You're earlier than I expected."

"My guests are still sound asleep," she told him. "I slipped a note under the door, in case they wake before I get back. It's just as well; I'd be happiest seeing Tarva do nothing but eat, drink and sleep for a couple of weeks."

"She certainly needs it," Anders agreed. "I have no idea why she isn't dead."

"Probably something about that curse," Hawke said. "What've we got today?"

As though it was a cue, there was a call for water from one of Anders's longer-term patients in the back room, and as Anders turned to deal with it, a human woman staggered in. Hawke hurried to her side, supporting her carefully – the way she was carrying her arm suggested broken ribs at the least – and helped her to a bed.

"Thank you, serah Hawke," the woman said.

She looked familiar – oval face, wide mouth, blue eyes, brown hair scraped into a soft bun which had a few pink oleander flowers stuck in it - and even though Hawke prided herself on never forgetting a face, it took her a moment to remember the circumstances under which they'd last met, and another one to dredge up a name. "Ah... Patrin?

"Muiren," she corrected Hawke.

"Oh, sorry. Normally I'm better than that. About three years ago, when all those gangs were trying to take over the city, wasn't it?"

"You have a good memory, serah Hawke. The offer stands, of course."

"The streets have been rather quiet lately," Hawke said as she helped Muiren lie down, and probed carefully at her ribs. "I haven't been jumped by a street gang in over a year."

"I have reason to suspect that may change," the woman said, hissing slightly when Hawke found a tender spot. "We live in troubled times, serah Hawke."

"We do indee-"

"Muiren?" Anders rushed out, practically shoving Hawke aside from her patient. "What are you doing here? Are you all right? Are the others – did they get out safely?"

Muiren smiled at him. "A few broken ribs, Anders. Stop fussing. The operation went as planned, except for the one watchdog we thought was safely asleep. Last I heard, our friends were enjoying a sea cruise." She held up a hand. "Don't ask more."

"I won't," Anders promised, and took her hand, his healing spell an elegant, effortless spill of blue light.

Hawke watched him with the usual envy – she was good, no doubt about it, but she simply didn't have the reserves of power that Anders did – and a faint touch of curiosity. She didn't usually enquire too deeply about Anders's... extra-curricular activities, but then again, she'd never seen him greet a patient with such concern or warmth, either. "Obviously you've been keeping in contact. Do I want to ask why?"

"That depends," Anders said, although he didn't look up at her. "Are you ready to fight for the rights of mages in this city yet?"

Oh. Right. That had always been rather a sore spot between them. "No offence to present company, Anders, but most of the mages I've met in Kirkwall have been stark raving _bonkers_. If the templars weren't looking after them, they'd have exploded the place by now."

" 'Looking after'? ' _Looking after_?' Hawke, what part of isolation and imprisonment and torture and _rape_ is including in 'looking after'? You've been free all your life – you have no idea what it's like in the Circle!"

"As you've said before," Hawke said, "and I admit it. But, Anders, we are mages. We aren't _just_ people; we are people who are extremely dangerous to others. All it takes is a moment of weakness – and there are plenty of opportunities – and boom, goodbye sexy tortured martyr look, and hello abomination! Not to mention all of those who _decide_ to use their power over other people-"

Anders released Murien's hand as the woman sat up, and sighed. "Hawke, you know I admire your determination never to use your magic against others... but you were born free. It's a luxury you can afford – for now. One day, you'll find yourself backed against a wall, with no weapon except your magic, and you'll use it."

"I'd rather die," Hawke told him. That was fundamental, the very core of her magic, her father's first and last teaching...

"Or that," Anders agreed. "But maybe then you'll understand the true plight of mages."

Well, it was an argument they'd had many times before, and even if it had gotten to the point where each of them could predict everything the other would say, it didn't get less bitter each time it flared up again. In stiff, awkward silence they tended to the patients – Anders was right about that much, it was starting to look like an epidemic - and when Hawke went home for lunch, she didn't invite him to join her.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Safiya was not a heavy sleeper – that was an unhealthy trait in a Red Wizard, no matter how good your wards were - and a soft, half-heard sound, perhaps a bird, woke her from a rather uneasy sleep. Her head felt stuffed. It seemed as though the Founder had passed to her rest when Akachi had, and passed all of her knowledge and memories - not to mention Nefris's and Lienna's – down to Safiya. It had hit her hard in the Fugue Plane, and it felt as though her subconscious had been busy sorting it all out while she slept. There were spells and ideas surfacing in her head that _she'd_ certainly never thought of – except that she sort of had.

It was going to take some getting used to, that was certain.

On the other hand, she hadn't slept so well in months. A bed, no watches, no dreams of being broken in the Wall of the Faithless... that was sheer luxury. Safiya sat up and stretched out her arms. She looked over at the bed set against the opposite wall. It was empty – and Tarva's scythe had gone too. Not a good sign, usually, but at least her armour was still on the floor.

Tucking her hands in the pockets of her red robe, she wandered out into the hall. Looking about her, Safiya spied Tarva through one of the floor-length windows that opened to a spacious, sheltered courtyard. She was moving slowly, her scythe sweeping about her in patterns Safiya vaguely recognised as her most basic exercises.

She supposed that she should go scold her friend and make her crawl back into bed to eat, sleep and generally convalesce, but really... she was Tarva's friend, not her mother or her healer. Tarva wasn't stupid, even if she was often ridiculously driven; she wouldn't push herself too far. Besides, Safiya had a horrible feeling she should really offer some comfort and reassurance about their... temporary misplacement of Gann, and she didn't have the first clue how one went about that sort of thing. Sympathy was not on the Red Wizard curriculum.

The library was just behind her, and she hadn't gotten to it yesterday. A library full of books she'd never even heard of – well, that was an entirely unnatural state, and it made her physically itchy. She took one more glance at Tarva. Apart from looking almost as thin as the scythe handle, her friend seemed to have things under control.

Safiya hurried into the library, a cheerful room lined with bookcases - not quite as many as she would have liked, she could see the wallpaper in a couple of places – and sighed, the closest she'd been to complete happiness in years. So very many books... where did she start?

A small movement caught her eye – Hawke's mother at the writing desk, raising her grey head to look at this intruder into her realm. "Hello, dear."

If Hawke hadn't referred to the woman as her mother, Safiya would never have looked closely enough to spot the resemblances. If they had been in Toril, she would have placed Mistress Hawke as a native of the Sword Coast – blue eyes, middle height, fair skin, and in youth, her hair would probably have been brown or blonde. Her daughter stood more than a head taller, and looked like a Chultan – dark brown skin, curly black hair, and eyes of a similar shade. Clearly Hawke took largely after her father; it was only on a closer inspection that Safiya had picked up the similarity to her mother in the shape of her features.

"Safiya, Mistress Hawke," she introduced herself.

"Safiya," the woman echoed. "How's your friend doing?"

"Good question." The Red Wizard browsed along the bookshelves. That section looked like history; she picked up a book. Well, that _wasn't_ history. She replaced it hastily, and heard Mistress Hawke chuckle.

"My daughter's idea of a joke. On the other hand, the descriptions of Denerim verge on the poetic." She smiled. "You don't have to worry about your friend. I've seen Flower pull off some amazing things. She has her father's hands."

" 'Flower'?"

"My daughter," Mistress Hawke answered.

"That's her name?" It didn't seem particularly suited...

"No, but it's what I call her." She shook her head ruefully. "A word to the wise, dear – never let a man name your babies. I let him have his way on the eldest, but I insisted on decent names for my twins." Her head dropped into her hands.

"Mistress Hawke?"

"Never mind, dear." She drew a deep breath and raised her head again. "What are you looking for?"

"Basic history, geography, magic theory. Whatever you have."

"An interesting combination," Mistress Hawke said. "For history and geography, I think you want Brother Genitivi – over there, dear. Magical theory... I don't think that's usually written down. It wouldn't be safe. If we do have any books of that kind, Flower will have them well-hidden."

Safiya looked up from the bookshelves in shock. "What's wrong with studying magic theory?"

Mistress Hawke looked at her very strangely. "If you don't know that, I think you'd better talk with Flower."

She knew when to stop pressing an informant and look at books instead. "I will. Thank you." Safiya gathered several volumes of Brother Genitivi and curled into a chair with them.

She read absorbedly for several hours, learning the shape of the world around her and something of its past. Blights and demons and darkspawn. Free Marches, Ferelden, Tevinter, Nevarra. Humans, elves, dwarves, Qunari. Andraste, the Maker, the Chantry. Something about the Fade – and Hawke had used the same term – but nothing very solid. Mentions of templars and the importance of their role, but no explanation of precisely what that role was. It all made her insanely curious.

She noticed the glances Mistress Hawke gave her – well, of course she did. Life in a Red Wizard Academy was an uncertain business and only those who were paranoid or extremely ruthless – ideally, both – prospered. Hawke's mother wasn't hostile, though; just a little worried. Far more relaxed than Safiya would have been, if she'd had two strangers in her house asking stupid questions, especially in a world that didn't know there were others.

Tarva came in not long after Mistress Hawke left. She was very pale, and, Safiya surmised, would probably have been shaking if her self-control was not so very good. "Tired?"

"Yes," the half-elf admitted. "I probably shouldn't have tried, but I have to do _something_ –"

"Of course," Safiya agreed. "Want to hear what I've learned so far?" At Tarva's nod, she summarised what she'd garnered. Her friend listened silently, although Safiya could guess exactly what she wanted to ask. She answered it. "I don't know where Gann might be."

"I know," Tarva said quietly. "If you'd thought of something, you would have come looking for me. And –"

"And?"

"Something's very wrong."

On awkward subjects, Tarva tended towards silence, and understatement when she couldn't be silent. She didn't make statements like that. "Can you tell me which 'something'?"

"Do you remember Skyla Avolov?" Safiya nodded; the powerful dreamer they had accompanied from the coven of the hags was not the sort of person one forgot easily. Tarva looked at the tiles, her face just as expressive as they were. "She spoke to - to _him_ just before we met Rashemen. There is a... phenomenon. She called it the Dreamer's Heart."

"Like the Dreamer's Eye and the Dreamer's Voice that the spirits had given you?"

"Not... not quite. The Eye and the Voice, she said, can be given by many spirits, for whatever reason they choose. The Heart... the Heart is given only by Sune." She caught Safiya's look. "The goddess of beauty and of love, and she gives it only when it is needed."

"And what does it do?"

"I... Safiya, I feel _him._ _His_ presence, _his_ love. That's what it does. Even... even after death."

It sounded terribly sentimental to her, but she supposed that was a given with a goddess of love. "And why is this 'something terribly wrong'?"

"Because," Tarva said, "ever since we came here... it's weaker."

"Oh." Safiya looked at her friend, who was very carefully not looking at her. "Tarva, it doesn't prove anything. We're in a different world. The rules are different. The gods probably don't even have power here."

"I can still feel _him_ ," Tarva said quietly. "My scythe flamed with Chauntea's fire. The gods may not rule, but they do have power, even here."

"The Weave doesn't exist," Safiya pointed out. "Either Mystra has no power here, or she's neglecting her job." Tarva said nothing, and Safiya sighed. "Look. We'll find Gann."

"One way or another," the half-elf said.

"And what do you mean by that?" She didn't like the sound of that phrasing much.

"If _he'_ s here or in Toril, we'll find _him_. If not, then I will go back to Kelemvor and make him surrender _him._ "

"Tarva... speaking from centuries of experience on the subject of rescuing loved ones from the land of the dead... it's a very bad idea." She might as well have been arguing with a brick.

"Don't think I'm unaware."

And that, Safiya knew, would be all she'd say on the subject. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her scalp, and chose another tack. "Did you dream last night? Can't you find Gann there?"

"I... did dream," Tarva said. "We were coming through that yellowish place, and I pushed _him_ away. Left _him_ there."

Centuries of aggregated experience in her head, and none of it warned her when she was about to say exactly the wrong thing. Safiya grimaced. "So... not helpful, then."

"No."

But Tarva should have been able to navigate dreams. The spirits of Rashemen had given her the Dreamer's Eye and the Dreamer's Voice; Gann's mother had given her a focusing stone. With all three of them, Tarva could dreamwalk. Safiya had _seen_ her holding the stone before they left the Fugue Plane... "The Hag's Eye?"

"Gone," Tarva told her. "Melted." She held out a hand to Safiya; in addition to the calluses left by years of scythe work, there was a raised silvery scar of a roughly circular shape, about the size the Hag's Eye had been. Had it – had it melted right though her gauntlet?

"What melted?" Hawke asked from the doorway. "And I hope you've been looking after yourself, Tarva. Nothing more irritating than a patient who insists on making my job harder."

"I believe you," the half-elf answered, as Hawke joined them. "But the schedule you left was very clear. And a... gift melted, when we crossed from the Fugue Plane."

Hawke grabbed Tarva's hand, just as she was withdrawing it, and frowned critically over the mark. "A burn. I must have missed it because it looks like old damage." She poked it. "Does that hurt?"

"No," Tarva said. "I barely felt it."

"It does look thick." Hawke muttered a few words to herself – Safiya strained to catch them, but didn't quite manage it. She couldn't even be sure whether Hawke was thinking out loud or casting. She touched Tarva's palm again, with a hand that glowed with blue magic –

\- the scar _blazed_ with an intense azure glow that made Tarva's hand seem insubstantial. It died almost instantly as Tarva jerked away from Hawke's touch.

"That did," Tarva said softly.

"That did what?" Hawke said. She was staring at Tarva – and at Safiya – as though she wasn't quite sure that she could trust her eyes.

"Hurt."

"What in the name of Szass Tam was that?" Safiya demanded, but she was already thinking, and thinking hard. Obviously a strong magical reaction of some kind, which suggested a correlation between however Hawke cast magic and the Hag's Eye... she wished she knew more about hag magic.

"Are you _sure_ you're not from Tevinter?" Hawke asked.

"Quite sure," Safiya said, and indicated the piles of books around her. "I've been studying. There do seem to be several cultural similarities, though." She ticked them off on her fingers. "The use of slaves, the eradication of sentient rights – although those two things are usually linked - the focus on magical experimentation, the presence of a ruling class of extremely paranoid and power-hungry spellcasters." Hawke was staring at her. "That's why I told you not to be afraid of me."

"Safiya _is_ a Red Wizard," Tarva said, "but she prefers to concentrate on more ethical research."

"It's actually more interesting," Safiya told her. "Any idiot with a weapon can hurt or kill someone. Not everyone can create life."

"Sure they can." Hawke grinned suddenly. "All it takes is two people of appropriate age and gender, and about nine months –"

"Not quite what I meant," Safiya said, but Hawke's smile was contagious, and the woman had relaxed again. "So, why did Tarva's hand light up like that?"

Hawke sobered immediately. "Lyrium."

"It was mentioned in a couple of books; nobody seemed quite sure about what it is. A magic-infused mineral?"

"Close enough," Hawke said. "Although I think it's magical in and of itself, not just magic-infused. The question hasn't been very widely studied; what it can _do_ is far more interesting than what it _is_. Hmmm... where to start?" She thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Raw lyrium. Don't touch it. The effects range from serious injury through madness to death. Fortunately, the veins are rare. Dwarves and the Tranquil can handle the raw form, though, and they can also use it to enchant items. It can be processed into several forms. If prepared in a potion and ingested, it feeds magic, or certain templar abilities – juices you up. But it's still dangerous – and very addictive. Lyrium withdrawal is not a pretty sight."

"And if trapped under the skin?" Safiya asked, concerned.

Hawke shook her head. "I don't know. I've heard that dwarven resistance to lyrium can be bypassed if the raw stuff gets in through an open wound – or the eyes or mouth." She looked critically at Tarva. "But I think if anything bad was going to happen to you, it would have done so already. Maybe you should talk to Fenris."

Tarva inclined her head, and Safiya shook hers. "The grumpy white-haired elf? He seemed..."

"I know," Hawke said, and then she smiled. "He does _seem_ – but it's not without reason. You've noticed his tattoos, I'm sure."

"They are rather noticeable," Safiya said. "Are facial tattoos a cultural peculiarity of elves here?"

"Oh, just..." Hawke waved her hands about. "Don't start on that just yet. Quick answer – some elves. Merrill's are. Fenris's aren't. Fenris is from Tevinter, and you mentioned all the important facts: slaves, magisters, magical experimentation."

"I see," Tarva said. Her voice was still soft, but there was something in it that caught Safiya's attention. She'd heard that tone a couple of times before. Sometimes it was followed by violence.

Hawke was looking at her, too. "Yeah, I can tell you do. He _was_ a slave, and his master was the experimental type. There's a lot to the story, but those tattoos are lyrium, branded into his flesh."

"Is that as evil as it sounds?" Tarva asked quietly, surprising Safiya again. First, she wanted to ask all sorts of things about how something like that had been achieved – it sounded quite the feat, given what Hawke had said. Second, she didn't see how Tarva had jumped to that particular question.

"No," Hawke said, her mouth set in a line of flat, implacable hatred. "It's much, much worse."

"I think I'd like to meet him properly," Tarva said.

Hawke nodded, although the glitter of anger hadn't left her eyes. "Probably a good idea. He carried you down from Sundermount, you know."

"Then I should thank him."

"He thought you were probably a slave," Hawke told her. "And that Safiya was your mistress. He was very sympathetic." She paused, and grinned. "Well, as sympathetic as I've ever seen him. He doesn't like you staying here, though. Doesn't trust you."

"Good," Tarva said.

"What?" Hawke gaped at the half-elf, and Safiya suppressed a laugh.

"Good," Tarva repeated. "He has no reason to trust us. _I_ wouldn't, if I were you. Not that I am ungrateful for your generosity – far from it – but if he distrusts us, that means he's paying attention. It's a good trait."

True enough, Safiya thought, but it wasn't exactly wise to point out that just how untrustworthy you might be when you were staying in a stranger's house and had nowhere else to go -

Hawke looked at her. "Am I wrong to trust you?"

"We're no threat to you," Tarva said quietly. "I probably owe you my life, and if anyone raises their hand against you, they will answer to me. But you're naїve. Needing help doesn't make a person trustworthy."

"I suppose..." Hawke admitted. "But if you can help, you should. You're responsible."

"Also true," Tarva said, and rose from her chair. "If you'll excuse me, I need some water."

Hawke stared after the half-elf as she left, and the silence in the library was almost painful. Finally, frowning, she turned back to Safiya. "Is... is your friend always like that?"

Safiya considered the question. "Usually she's less abrasive... but the trust issues? Oh, yes." She offered Hawke's words back to her. "It's not without reason."

"Right," Hawke said, and ran slender ebony fingers through her curls. "Sounds exhausting."

"Sometimes," Safiya said, and leaned forward. "Now, tell me all about magic, and why you hide your magic theory books, and about templars..."

-0-0-0-0-0-

In the timeless black void where Gann is curled about himself, there comes a time that is different, when the Dreamer's Heart strengthens once more. Tarva, he thinks, and suddenly everything is easier. She lives.

The sense of her nearness, the assurance of her love, encourages him, spurs him into action. He would never normally attempt to walk a dream so strong, even with a proper anchor instead of this connection between him – and he isn't so sure he can trust it not to weaken again – but what choice does he have? He must wake somehow; cowering in the dark will not help him find Tarva. For all he knows, she has been caught in the same way and is waiting for _him_ to rescue _her_.

So Gann anchors himself with the Dreamer's Heart, and wraps all his other gifts and skills about him as armour, and slowly, cautiously, he reaches out.

The strength of the dream he touches – lightly as a dragonfly skimming over water – burns and sears him, and he snatches himself back. He's never felt anything like that, and he has encountered some very strong dreamers. The coven of hags at Coveya Kurg'annis had been stealing dreams for their own personal hoard for centuries, weaving them into a tapestry of unimaginable strength; yet he and Tarva had ventured there and never feared being swept away.

The dream he's in... is as much greater than the hags' as a volcano is greater than a small candle, and as volatile, as ancient. Gann has no idea how such a thing could be, but it's an idle speculation. The question is what to do – no, it isn't even that. The question is how to do it.

He steels himself and reaches out again. The dream lashes and burns him, but he fights past the pain and the overwhelming temptation just to hide again where it cannot reach him. Like a great wind, it tears at him, but he clutches at his flimsy anchor and stands unmoved. It would drown him; he struggles frantically to keep his head above water. He forces himself to adjust, to make sense of the overwhelming barrage of emotion and ideas and personalities – bilious light glares and dazzles his eyes, and the mad babble of uncounted souls shrieks in his ears, but he's succeeding –

\- one voice cuts through all the others, urgent and beloved, " _Gann!"_

"Tarva!" he calls out, "I'm _here_!" It takes all he has left, and he begins to fall back down into the darkness, but then her arms are around him, and the dream comes sharply into focus. He has no eyes for the greenish, livid world around him; all he truly sees is her.

She looks up at him, her love and relief shining in her eyes, her expression open as Gann has rarely seen it. Her dark hair is loose, flowing over white shoulders left bare by her grey shift – a garment so thin as to barely hide the slender, perfect lines of her body. "Gann," she says softly. "I was so worried."

"Oh, my love," he smiles at her, for everything is all right now.

"Never again," she says, and pulls his head down to kiss him hungrily. Her tongue thrusts past his lips, and if his mouth had not been otherwise occupied, he could have laughed at her eagerness. They had needed to be so restrained for so long... He threads his hands in her hair, pulling her closer; her hands slide underneath his shirt and pinch expertly, sending a current just short of pain through him, making him groan her name.

Her mouth is soft and hot against his throat. Her fingers nimbly undo the buckle of his belt –

\- and he pushes her away, appalled at what he'd nearly done.

"Gann?" she asks, her eyes filling with tears. "What's wrong? Don't... don't you love me any more?"

"I don't know who or what you are, or why you are wearing Tarva's shape, but you don't fool me."

"Gann. Gann, please-" She is crying, and even though he knows beyond any possibility of doubt that this is not Tarva in front of him, he cannot look at her. "You're breaking my heart."

"You're not her. You're not even a particularly good imitation. Go away."

"Gann... Gann, you've been here too long. I'm sorry it took so long to find you, but please... please, recognise me," she begs. "Don't be so hard, so suspicious. Come with me. I can help you get out of here."

Gann turns his back and begins walking away, refusing to acknowledge the woman. The dream swirls chaotically about him, and for all its strength, it isn't loud enough to muffle the sound of her weeping.


	5. Fenris Fails a Diplomacy Check

Fenris: Diplomacy *critical failure* : (1 + 0 = 1 vs. DC: 25)

* * *

Three years, and still Fenris retired to the wine cellar as soon as summer hit Kirkwall. It was not the heat that bothered him; Minrathous was far hotter. It was the humidity. Kirkwall broiled for months on end, whereas no summer day in Minrathous was without at least three rainstorms. He spent far too much time on edge, waiting for the oppressive atmosphere to break.

The muggy air was almost intolerable in his usual perch at the top of the house, and Fenris had given up attempts to tolerate it in his first year. The wine cellar was hewn from bedrock and thus remained dry and cool all year round. He hated not having a window as an escape route, but it was a small price to pay not to feel like a steamed fish. He slept down in the cellar, he trained there and, on occasion, put it to its intended purpose and stored wine there. Never for too long, though.

He brought up his blade, saluting his invisible opponent; after a moment, Fenris blurred into action, the routine exercises so effortlessly familiar that he pushed the tempo to the point he could barely keep up with his imaginary adversary, and still had space to think.

And, of course, the same subject came unbidden to his mind, as he lashed out and whirled away from the inevitable counterattack.

Hawke.

Hawke, who was a _mage._ He hadn't known when he'd asked for her help; not until he'd misjudged the Arcane Horror in Danarius's mansion, and the demon nearly killed him, had he felt the distinctive, repulsive slither of magic through his flesh and bones, and known the viper in their midst.

She'd told him, afterwards, that she sought nothing more than survival for herself and her family. That she had no use for power, unless she could use it to help; that she'd vowed never to use her magic to harm. He'd sneered at her and given it a week at the most before she showed her true colours. "I will be watching you," he'd said, and she'd smiled at him and answered that she'd appreciate it.

A week had passed, and Hawke had kept her word, at least where he could see, and the week had become two, and then a month, and he'd lost track of how many times she'd healed him, or that her magic had shielded him. More, there had been times – cornered by spiders, a slaver with a knife to a boy's throat, a blood mage forcing Hawke to hold a knife against her own throat, a flood of darkspawn – when he had thought _surely, now, she will give in_ , but she hadn't.

And gradually Fenris had come to believe that even if she kept dubious company, in the form of a blood mage and an abomination, Hawke was not like them. She wasn't like anyone. She had meant that vow; it was something he could... trust – and that made no sense.

He'd stopped waiting for the mage to reveal the magister, but had not stopped watching Hawke – and that made no sense, either. Why should he care that –

"Oi, Fenris!"

Aveline's voice interrupted his train of thought, and would have gotten him killed if he'd been fighting anything more than a shadow. Fenris lowered his blade, wiped his face and called, "Down here."

It was unusual for the Guard Captain to visit him; also unusual was the guest she brought with her, the woman Fenris had carried down from Sundermount. He nodded a polite greeting to them both. "You are not much given to paying social calls, Aveline." As for the other woman, the one the bald mage had told such a wild story about... well, he wasn't sure what to make of her. She leant herself against a wall, her strange weapon beside her.

"I do have a job to do," Aveline conceded. "As it happens, I'm not paying a social call right now, either."

"I suspected as much. Did Hawke send you?"

"In a sense," Aveline said. "The Arishok asked for you, but the viscount seems to have come down with a bad case of the politicals and wants Hawke to go talk to him. He can't be seen entrusting something as delicate as the Qunari situation to an elf."

Fenris spat out an Arcanum expression, indicative of a potential means for the viscount to deal with the 'Qunari situation' that probably neither the viscount nor the Qunari would appreciate.

Aveline shrugged. "Well, naturally Hawke's uncomfortable with it, and she's hoping you wouldn't mind going together to talk to the Arishok. I suspect she may also intend giving the viscount a piece of her mind." The guardswoman sighed. "In any case, Hawke apologises for not coming herself, but she's busy trying to teach Safiya the entire history of the world. She was attempting to explain Andraste when I left. She asked me to bring Tarva over; apparently there's a few things she's to ask you about."

"Me?" Fenris glanced over at the skeletal woman, who was watching them with an impassive expression on her face.

"You," Aveline nodded.

"If you don't mind," the dark-haired woman added softly.

"I suppose I can do that," Fenris said.

"Glad to hear it. I can't stay," Aveline added. "I hope you won't mind walking Tarva back, Fenris."

"I'm not that fragile," she said, and Fenris snorted. Given that she was barely as tall as the blood mage and considerably thinner, 'fragile' was exactly what she appeared to be. She just looked at him, her eyebrows slightly raised.

"Hawke's orders," Aveline told her, as though that settled it. "Drop by the barracks if you want a hand with the Qunari, and otherwise, I'll see you for Wicked Grace tomorrow night." With that, she dismissed herself, leaving Fenris alone with his unexpected guest.

"That's a large sword you wield," she said. "I would be interested to see you in action at some time."

Fenris knitted his eyebrows. He wasn't sure how to take that. From the witch or from Aveline, it would have been an entirely innocent comment; from the pirate, a pure innuendo. Hawke might have intended it either way, but she couldn't keep a straight face – he would have known her meaning instantly. This woman was unreadable. He offered up, "I was practicing when you arrived."

"I apologise for interrupting," she said, running her hand over the long, curved blade of her weapon, as if to test its sharpness. "If you wish to continue, I have no objection to carrying on a conversation at the same time."

Fenris took her at her word, hefting the familiar weight of the greatsword and taking up the familiar patterns of a basic training sequence. He watched the stranger carefully through the swinging of the sword, just in case she showed any inclination to pick up her scythe; not that she looked like a threat in her current state.

"Hawke said you carried me down from a mountain," the woman said. He could feel her eyes, unwavering, on him.

"Ah... yes." Parry, side-step, spin and _thrust_...

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I... I am not good with words, but... thank you."

"It was of no moment," he said, and lunged out.

"You're over-extending," the woman told him, sounding a lot more certain of her ground. "It leaves you too open. Don't lock your elbow, and you'll recover better."

Fenris grunted at the unexpected criticism, but tried the move again, paying careful attention – and yes, it did flow better.

"You're good," she told him. "I would enjoy sparring with you." At his incredulous look – he was still a little surprised that she had made it from Hawke's estate at all – she added, "Not immediately. Perhaps in a tenday."

Ten days? That sounded wildly optimistic to him. "Perhaps," he allowed, and executed a perfect Whirlwind before speaking again. "I cannot imagine Hawke sent you here merely to express gratitude and criticise my sword technique."

"No, she didn't," she said slowly. "Hawke said you could tell me about lyrium. Specifically, its effects when trapped under the skin."

Fenris's parry was not as swift as it should have been. "Do you jest?"

"Not at all," she answered. "Hawke mentioned that lyrium is known for its unpleasant side-effects. She said you might know whether I should expect them."

Fenris frowned, coming to a halt facing the woman. "Because you have lyrium embedded in your flesh." It was not quite a question.

"So Hawke tells me," and his guest held out her right hand. In the middle of the palm, marring the distinctive lines that spoke as eloquently of her weapon expertise as her advice, there was a raised, roughly circular burn scar. "She prodded it with magic, and it lit up like a Ghost Light."

Leaving aside the question of just what a Ghost Light might be... "Blue," Fenris said, and she nodded. "And it was painful." She nodded again. "Like this?" he asked, and his brands surged to life.

Her impassive expression was unchanged; he might as well have been displaying his talents to a stone wall. "Similar. I cannot imagine," she added, and although her face was still, there was the faintest of wavers in her voice, "how much that must hurt."

"It is... unpleasant," Fenris agreed, "but I am inured." He phased his arm through one of the wooden wine racks, and watched her eyes widen slightly.

"And that is the effect of lyrium trapped under the skin?"

Fenris pulled his arm free and let his tattoos fade into quiescence. "In my case. In yours?" he shrugged. "You may as well try."

"How?"

"Concentrate," Fenris offered, and with a touch of black humour, added, "or get angry."

She said something to herself as she closed her eyes; Fenris thought it might have been "What's the difference?". A slow exhalation, and she opened them again – and he took a step back. Her face was no more expressive, but there was an intense focus about her features, and something in the eyes...

Fenris knew murderous fury when he provoked it. But this... this was cold, hard and utterly controlled. It reminded him – he felt the familiar sting of lyrium as his tattoos kindled, recognising the threat before his conscious mind had recognised that Danarius's anger had been exactly the same.

"Is something wrong?"

The frail woman was _not_ Danarius. She was _not_ a threat.

The light died, and there had been no answering blue gleam from her hand. "Either that was not the correct way to trigger it for you, or you cannot harness the lyrium in that manner. How did you come by it?"

She looked away. Fenris didn't miss the way her hands cradled the smooth handle of her weapon, as if for comfort. "It's a long story from one of those irrelevant travels Safiya mentioned. May I summarise?" Fenris nodded, and she sat down, leaning her head against the wall to look up at him. "Do you remember what Safiya said about hags?"

"A race of _somniari_ women who eat their mates alive."

" _Somniari_?"

"Mages who can enter the dreams of others and affect them as they wish," Fenris explained.

"Ah. Yes." She was silent for a moment. "Some of the hags use stones, known as Hag's Eyes, to help them better focus when dreamwalking. An Eye that has been used for a long time by a powerful hag gradually becomes imbued with some of that power. They do not surrender them usually, but there were... unusual circumstances, and I was given one. If I went to sleep with it on my forehead, I could dreamwalk."

Had he heard that right? "You – _You_ are a _somniari?_ You are a _mage?"_ he spat the accusations out venomously.

Her eyebrows raised just slightly at his tone, but she spoke dispassionately. "I could dreamwalk, with help and great effort, but the Eye melted into my hand when we crossed from the Fugue Plane. I'd never heard of lyrium before Hawke mentioned it. And I have never had any command of any sort of magic."

"You claim to be a _somniari_ in one breath and deny being a mage in the next?"

"The two things aren't related."

He narrowed his eyes, unwilling to take her statement at face value. Anyone who could maintain so impassive a mask to hide her feelings had to be an accomplished liar. "How can you be so ignorant?"

"Because I don't come from here, Fenris," the words were soft, but the force behind them was not. "I am very far from home, I know practically nothing about this world, _he_ is _missing_ and I have no idea where or even how to start looking!"

The passionate response startled him into stepping back again. "I did not intend offence."

She shook her head. "There is so much I don't know. Please... don't mock me. Just tell me. What's the connection between dreams and magic?"

"You should speak to Hawke."

"She's repeating the entire history of the world for Safiya. I don't need that much background information. Just a very basic overview."

Fenris shifted from foot to foot, weighing his words, and lifted his sword again, moving into a more advanced pattern of steps. "You would be better off asking Hawke. Mages draw their power from the Fade and remain awake when they visit it. The rest of us are at the mercy of the Fade when we dream." He pivoted back towards his guest.

She was yanking at a handful of her hair. "The Fade is the yellowy place Safiya and I came through, and the source of your mages' power?"

"Yes," Fenris said, slicing the air into several chunks. "It is said that whenever our souls are disconnected from our body, whether we are unconscious, dreaming, or dead, they are in the Fade."

"Dead. Hence the Fugue Plane," she muttered, although that seemed to be to herself, and it made no sense to Fenris in any case. Then she froze. "Fenris... _everyone_ dreams in the Fade?"

"Not dwarves," he said, "nor the Tranquil. I am not certain about the kossith, although their _saarebas_ appear to face the same risks as other mages. But elves and humans, yes."

"Are you saying that I abandoned _him_ in the collective dreamscape of _an entire world, alone?"_

It was a strange way of referring to the Fade, but not inaccurate. The heavy emphasis on 'him' probably indicated the man they had mentioned... Fenris frowned, lowering his sword and crossing his hands over the pommel. The woman was ice-white, her eyes wide and – yes – panicked. "Yes."

"Oh, _gods,_ " she said, and buried her face in her hands.

"There is more," Fenris said; although Hawke would explain it better... "Your bald friend mentioned... he is also a _somniari_?" There was the faintest of nods. "There are demons in the Fade. They are drawn to mages, attempting to possess them and turn them into abominations. A _somniari_ would be a great prize for them." She looked up, face as white and drawn as a skull, and Fenris told her, "You should hope that he is dead."

She jerked to her feet as though a mage had shot lightning through her veins. Her hands clenched convulsively about her blade; it flared with green-gold light that didn't hide the fact it had sliced across her palms.

"You are bleeding," Fenris said.

"It doesn't matter," she answered, her voice toneless, and her fingers locking tighter around the scythe-blade. "I need to ask Hawke about this, I need to talk to Safiya, I _need_ to –" She shook her head, took a deep breath, although she looked no more settled for it. Her dark eyes fixed on him. "Fenris. Thank you."

The only other person who had ever thanked him for anything was Hawke, and Fenris was not used to it. It was rather more disconcerting in this case, where he had no idea why she should thank him. He said as much. "What for?"

"For your honesty," she said, and turned away, the scythe propped on one shoulder, one bleeding hand staining the wooden handle, the other clenched into a fist that dripped scarlet.

He chased her up the steps. "Aveline wished me to escort you back."

"As you wish." She said nothing more as he accompanied her to Hawke's estate.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Safiya glanced back over her notes. Her gaze snagged on the part about the Fade. There was something there that was ringing faint bells in her subconscious, although she couldn't put her finger on it yet. "You're a good teacher, Hawke. Let me know if you ever want a post; the Academy's a little short of instructors."

Hawke grinned. "Is _any_ of that going to be relevant to students from your world?"

"Well..." Safiya considered her notes again. "Not as such. But we encourage multiple lines of thought and approaches. You never know what will turn out to be useful. And the Mulan humans aren't native to Toril either – my particular race," she added.

"As if your world didn't have enough races on it," Hawke said, glancing over _her_ notes, which were considerably shorter than Safiya's, since they'd mostly been talking about Thedas.

The front door banged; an instant later, Tarva stood in the library entry, flanked by the elf. Safiya had barely looked up, and Hawke was already prying Tarva's bloody hands from her scythe and scolding both her and Fenris impartially for not taking proper care of her patient.

The Red Wizard pushed her notes aside and rose to join the three of them in the doorway. Safiya couldn't read Tarva's moods, not the way Gann could, but she thought she recognised this one, and it meant very bad things. Frequently violence.

Fenris muttered that he wasn't at fault as Hawke summoned her magic and closed the long, clean cuts. Tarva's face set like stone as the harsh lyrium light glared from her hand. "Tell me," she said urgently. "The Fade. Mages. Demons. _Abominations_."

Everything Hawke had spent the last couple of hours telling Safiya, in fact. She didn't know why any of it (except the Fade, where they had... mislaid Gann) should matter so much to Tarva; it was not like either of them were likely to attract either demons or templars.

"Come sit down, and I'll tell you all about it," Hawke said, just as patiently as if she hadn't gone over it all with Safiya already. "Fenris, would you mind sticking around for a bit? I'd like to go over this Qunari situation with you." The elf nodded, and stood staring at the empty fireplace.

Tarva wasted no time. "The Fade is the collective dreamscape of Thedas," she said, and that particular phrasing made Safiya grin.

"And Gann's a dreamwalker," the Red Wizard said. "An entire world to explore... Well, wherever he's ended up, I bet he's having fun with that." Tarva turned to look at her, and she felt ice run down her spine – "Tarva, what is it? What's the matter?"

"A what?" Hawke interjected.

" _Somniari,"_ Fenris said, studying the ugly statue that stood above the fireplace as though trying to spot its weaknesses.

Hawke looked intrigued. "Father said that was a myth. No mage is strong enough to bend the Fade to their will."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Tarva said.

"Gann?" Safiya didn't know enough of the Fade – or of dreamwalking - to be certain, but despite his constant boasting, when it came down to cases, he had always sounded like an expert. And the shaman had pulled off several unlikely feats. "He invaded the hags' dream in Coveya Kurg'annis; have a little faith, Tarva."

"Safiya, we managed the Coven because I was there."

"...Oh," Safiya said, finally starting to see the ugly shape of the matter. "I'd thought Gann was just finding an excuse to spend more time alone with you. Your presence was actually necessary?"

"Vital," Tarva said. "There are risks to walking in a dream too powerful for you – or don't you remember the state Anya was in? The Coven... I am just enough of a dreamwalker to serve as an anchor. Something solid, a link back to the waking world. The Fade -"

"-is probably far more powerful, and Gann's alone." Safiya completed the sentence, cursing herself for jumping to the wrong conclusion. "Wherever he is, he has to sleep sooner or later."

"Wait a moment," Hawke said slowly. "Your missing man is a _somniari._ Tarva is too, but a... lesser one? And you're worried because if he doesn't have help, the Fade will probably overwhelm his defences?"

"I don't think there's much 'probably' about it," Tarva said softly. "The dream of nine hags was too strong for one person. The dream of a whole world..."

Safiya cursed softly to herself, remembering how Gann had simply collapsed when they'd crossed over, imagining the psychic weight of the Fade, as Hawke had described it – the ancient, endless dream of countless souls, and trying not to imagine the effect of all of it crashing down on somebody sensitive to it and unprepared... "Szass Tam."

"Maker, what a mess," Hawke sighed. "Look, Tarva. The way I see it, you've been in Thedas for the better part of thirty hours. Gann must have had to sleep in that time, especially if he was anything like as exhausted as you two were. Either he survived the Fade, or he didn't."

Safiya saw Tarva pale, but she didn't flinch; it was clearly a thought she'd had already, and it tied in all too neatly with what she'd said about the Dreamer's Heart weakening.

"If he didn't, there's nothing you can do," Hawke continued.

Not quite true, Safiya knew, but, if it were so, she would much prefer that Tarva accept it rather than throw herself into another doomed assault on the City of Judgement.

Hawke went on. "I'm inclined to think that he did; you did, after all, and you implied he was stronger than you. If that's the case, you've got some time to find him. Varric and Aveline both have extensive information networks and they've both indicated they're willing to help. Anders and Isabela have connections too, although they're a little more... specialised." She leant forward, looking very serious indeed. " _Don't_ go looking in the Fade. If he has survived so far, the danger isn't the Fade itself; it's the demons. By all accounts, a _somniari_ will draw a lot of attention from those quarters, and you are probably in just as much danger as he is."

Tarva returned Hawke's gaze steadily, but she didn't nod.

"This is important," Hawke insisted. "Don't trust anything you see in the Fade. Demons can take any form they please; they'll browse through your memories and become what you most want to see. _Who_ you most want to see."

Some things Safiya was good at picking up; even as she feared for Gann, another part of her mind was putting more puzzle pieces in place, and yet another automatically noted Hawke's momentary glance at Fenris.

"They'll promise you everything. Don't listen."

"I've encountered demons before," Tarva said quietly, and despite everything, Safiya had to suppress a snort when she added, "Devils too," and the Red Wizard remembered exactly how well _that_ little incident had turned out. "I know how they keep their promises."

"So don't trust anything you see in the Fade," Hawke repeated her warning. "If he's vulnerable, you are too. Don't go looking for Gann, because you'll only find desire demons wearing his form. If you listen to any of them... you end up possessed."

"An abomination," Tarva said. "Fenris mentioned the term."

Well, that wasn't what the word meant in Toril, but Safiya got the distinct impression that it wasn't any more pleasant a creature to encounter. Except that Fenris had referred to the blonde mage – Anders – as an abomination, so clearly demonic possession wasn't as grave a problem as Hawke was implying.

It might have been a purely emotive term, of course... Safiya indulged herself in logic-chopping; it helped take her conscious mind off the nastier implications of the conversation. She would let her subconscious deal with them.

The theory was a great deal easier than the practice.

"You'd better go eat," Hawke was telling Tarva. "Sleep, too, if you can; it's the best thing you can do for yourself right now. As long as you're careful. You need to rebuild your strength."

"I know," Tarva said, "and thank you, Hawke, Fenris." She nodded to Safiya, and left, leaning on her scythe with every step.

Safiya hesitated, uncertain whether to follow her or not. If only Gann were here... he would know whether Tarva needed company or solitude; he always did. Safiya had no idea. Then again, if Gann were here, there wouldn't have been a problem.

"Nothing else we can do," Hawke told the Red Wizard, "at least, not until we have a little more information. And, if you'll forgive me –"

"You do have other business to attend to," Safiya said, with a nod. "Shall I make myself scarce?"

"May as well," Hawke shrugged. "It's nothing secret; just dull."

Safiya had remarkably little tolerance for boredom, and she wanted to go back over her notes anyway; she nodded to them both, gathered her papers, and headed back to the little room she shared with Tarva. She got as far as the doorway.

Tarva was kneeling beside her bed, face buried in her hands. Safiya froze for a moment, but her friend showed no sign she even knew that Safiya was there... and given how acute Tarva's hearing was, she must have known the Red Wizard was approaching. Unless her mind was so thoroughly occupied with her thoughts (or prayers?) that it hadn't even registered – and in that case, Safiya would find somewhere else to be.

-0-0-0-0-0-

A drip of wax to seal the letter, a pigeon from the special cote, and the message was on its way.

_Dear Brother,_

_My Friends are all Very Concerned about the current Situation in Kirkwall. The Qunari down on the Docks are starting to Look Restless. If your Travels should ever Bring you this Way, I would Value your Advice on the Situation._

_You remember that Grey Kitten who Ran Away from us? He's been Hiding in the Sewers here. I think I have finally Succeeded in Winning his Trust. I am hoping to Tame him and Bring him Home. Maker Knows, in Times like These, we need such Talented Mousers!_

_All my love,_

_Your sister Em._

-0-0-0-0-0-

"Summing up," Hawke said, "We pay a visit to the viscount a couple of hours before noon, and then go on to the Arishok immediately afterwards. It would be more polite to go direct to the Arishok, but you don't like the idea of jumping in blind." Fenris nodded, and she echoed the gesture. "Right. Now that we've got that settled, I've got something _much_ more important to discuss with you."

"I am listening."

Hawke grinned at him. She'd been waiting for weeks to do this. "Well! No idea when your birthday is, and we're just past the date I met you, but I consider that something to celebrate too. Was hoping it'd arrive before now, though." She flashed Fenris a grin; his eyebrows were drawn together.

"Hawke, that made no sense."

"It'll make more in a moment. Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

"No."

"Please? It's a tradition, and I promise not to attack you." He didn't move a muscle. "Trust me."

Fenris's eyes narrowed in that particular expression that meant _against my better judgement_. "Very well," he said, closing his eyes and holding up his hands. Hawke stared at the elf. If she'd given Bethany or Carver that instruction, they would have put out their hands palm up and waited for her to drop a present into them. Fenris's hands – spiky gauntlets, olive skin and elegant lyrium lines – were curled closed and shaking slightly, and held too far away from his body.

She couldn't really balance a present on top of his fists, but – with a lurch of pure horror, Hawke realised that he'd held out his hands as if to be cuffed. "Palms up, Fenris," she said, and tried to stop her voice from shaking. She knew he caught the quaver by the way his head moved, but he didn't open his eyes as he obeyed.

Hawke reached behind her and fished up the parcel, laying it flat across his hands. "Happy anniversary-ish," she said, as he frowned over the weight. When it appeared necessary, Hawke added, "You can look now."

He did. His voice was unusually inexpressive as he looked at the present and commented, "It's... a book."

"Yes." She'd thought... she'd thought he'd like it. "You remember we were talking about Shartan a while ago, and you said you wished you knew more about him? It's hard to find the histories that the Chantry hasn't edited, but Varric knows a guy, and he eventually tracked down a copy for me."

Fenris was holding the book very carefully. "I... appreciate the thought, Hawke, but this is useless to me. I cannot read. Slaves are not taught how."

He said it so simply, but still, Hawke felt her face heating. Thank the Maker for a nice, dark Nevarran complexion which hid blushes. "I am... thoroughly ashamed."

Fenris snorted. "You are hardly to blame."

Hawke shook her head, feeling about three inches tall. Maker's hairy armpits, giving a present was supposed to be a simple thing. What a mess she'd made of it. " _Three years_ , Fenris, and I never even noticed – "

"You were not supposed to," Fenris said, and there was something in his deep voice that almost sounded like wry amusement. Hawke raised her head, seeing that particular not-quite smile on his face.

It encouraged her. "If you wanted," Hawke said slowly, feeling her way through the sentence, "if you liked... I could teach you to read it."

Fenris was silent for a time. His fingers traced the gold lettering neatly embossed onto the leather cover. "Yes," he said, finally, and Hawke let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. "Yes, I think I would like that."

"You say that now," Hawke said, and chanced a grin. "Just promise me you won't throw the inkpot at me when you get frustrated at your teacher."

"I make no such promise," Fenris said. "But I will give you adequate warning so that you may duck."

"Your generosity is more than I deserve, good ser."

"I know."

This... this was better than she had hoped. She'd been entertaining certain ideas about Fenris, inspired perhaps by her deep appreciation for the rough velvet of his voice, the unexpected charm of his rare smiles, his sardonic sense of humour, his effortless, lethal grace in combat... well, by just about everything about him, really, except his abiding hatred for mages (like her). The chance to spend a little more time in close proximity... she liked that very much indeed.

"Let me just grab some paper and things," Hawke said, even as she was doing it. "No time like the present, they tell me."

-0-0-0-0-0-

The thing that is not Tarva returns the next time the Dreamer's Heart strengthens, pulling the strange, livid world into focus about her. The loose shift swirls about her body, revealing more than it conceals; her eyes are red-rimmed and serious. "Gann," she calls his name, her voice soft and loving. She holds her hand out to him; when he turns away, she lets out a shaky sigh. "As you wish," she says.

"I know you're not her. Go away," Gann says dully.

"I won't do that," she tells him. "Even if you don't recognise me, I can't leave you here. It's not safe for you – and if I can't get you out of here until you let me in, I can at least protect you. At least, I'll try."

" 'Let you in'?" Gann is tired, tired to the bone, for he struggles every moment to hold himself together against the dream, and even when he lets himself slip back down into darkness there is no true rest. Still, he instinctively distrusts this thing that has the temerity to take on Tarva's shape and try to fool him; he just isn't sure how to make it leave him alone. His bow is missing, and his leather armour is somewhat the worse for wear after their assault on the city of the dead.

Then he remembers, and bends to touch his boot...

"To aid you, as I have before," she says. "To anchor you. At the Wells of Lurue you told me how dangerous it was for a dreamwalker alone in a dream too strong –"

"Get _out_ of my memories!"In one swift moment, Gann pulls the dream-dagger free and rests its point – red and glowing, as it has never appeared before - against her white throat. She looks up at him, her dark eyes steady, fearless, full of trust.

She isn't Tarva. He knows that. But she stands there, and she looks at him as she would, and he knows he does not have the strength to thrust that dagger home. He wishes that the creature had taken any other form –

Her eyes widen. "Gann, behind you!"

He isn't fool enough to fall for that.

"What have we here?" an oddly-toned female voice purrs, and Gann does turn. There are three succubi there – well, they have no wings, and their skin is the same shade as his, but they cannot be mistaken for anything else, with their antlers, burning eyes and ridiculous lack of clothing, designed to drawn even more attention to their over-lush figures.

"Desire demons," not-Tarva murmurs, just loud enough to hear. "Don't trust them."

"Such suspicion!" a succubus says, holding up her clawed hands in a gesture of peace. "We've only come to pay our respects, sister, and to meet our _handsome_ cousin."

"We'd like to get to know you a little better," another adds, her tongue tracing her full lips, leaving them shining. Behind her, the third tugs suggestively at the golden tassel that hangs from her nipple...

Gann is not entirely unmoved; he is flesh and blood, after all, and he has been celibate for a most unnatural length of time – but it is all so _obvious_ a trap that he almost laughs. He steps forward –

"No!" not-Tarva cries, absolute anguish in her voice, and throws herself past him, armour on, scythe whirling out to take the head of one of the demons and shear through another. The third raises her hands, a spell forming at her fingertips – Gann _feels_ it, the magic drawn from the dream around him – and without thinking, acts to counter it, chanting familiar words, his hands flickering in the accompanying patterns.

When he releases the spell, the final demon explodes.

For a moment, Gann just stares at the red mist seeping into the bilious ground. His spells are not normally so powerful, and it had felt different, too. His magic comes from within him, from the shamanic training that makes him as much spirit as a living being can ever be. This... is drawn from the dream about him. As the hags cast magic. As the demon had.

 _Cousin,_ they had called him.

 _Sister_ , they had called her.

"You are one of _them_ ," he hurls the accusation at the thing wearing Tarva's face.

"Gann, no," she says, tears welling up in her eyes.

But he knows the truth. He's certain he knows the truth.

And he cannot harm her either way.


	6. Warriors Roll Fortitude Saves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Some of you may notice a familiar name in here – the lovely Inveleth, who drew some stunning pictures for All It Takes, and graciously agreed to appear here. Nor is it the last we’ll see of her... Many thanks, also, to Oleander’s One and pennies-for-eyes for their advice with the numbers on this one.
> 
> It has been some time since I last updated, due to various stuff (some of it good) and may I therefore add that I’m thoroughly sick of this chapter?

Aveline: Fortitude Save vs. Poison : *success* (17 + 11 = 28 vs. DC: 22)

Aveline: Fortitude Save vs. Poison : *success* (16 + 11 = 27 vs. DC: 24)

Aveline: Fortitude Save vs. Poison : *failure* (13 + 11 = 24 vs. DC: 26)

Fenris: Fortitude Save vs. Poison: *success* (17 + 8 = 25 vs. DC: 22)

* * *

Apparently she’d spent too long on the road and grown too accustomed to night watches to properly appreciate a dark room and a soft bed, at least without deep exhaustion to help her along. Safiya grimaced to herself, and turned over.

 “You too?” Tarva’s soft voice floated through the darkness.

 “You know, I remember complaining once – near Lake Mulsantir, I think – that you weren’t giving us enough time in civilised surroundings. I take it back.”

 “Would you prefer to be camping in the snow?”

 “It appears my current sleep patterns would.” Safiya sat up, and sighed. Her eyes were sufficiently adjusted to make out the shape of Tarva, beside her own bed, rising from her knees. “How long have you been awake?”

 “A couple of hours,” Tarva said. “I... had a dream.”

 “I realise it’s probably personal, but I’d like to hear about it. If you’re willing.” She thought about it a moment longer. “If it’s the kind Hawke was warning you about, however, you should probably mention it to her as well.”

 “Safiya.  After all this time, do you really think I’d still keep secrets from you?”

 Safiya distrusted the lightness of her words. “There’s a difference between something private and something secret,” she pointed out. “I don’t tell you absolutely everything, you know.”

 “I trust you to tell me what’s important,” Tarva said. “And there really isn’t much to tell. It was just a voice in the distance, whispering reassurances. Everything would be all right, it said, all I had to do was wait and trust, and all would yet be well.”

 “Was it Gann?”

 “I... don’t know. It might have been.”

 “If you’re not sure,” Safiya told her, “then it wasn’t.” She wasn’t good at certain aspects of interpersonal relationships, but the woman she once was had loved Akachi, and some things she’d never forget. “You love him; things would have to be very bad indeed if you couldn’t recognise him instantly.”

 The half-elf was silent for a long moment. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a romantic, Safiya.”

 She laughed a little. “It’s not exactly expected of a Red Wizard, but it certainly shouldn’t surprise you. Parts of me have spent hundreds of years planning to free my lover from his torment. What am I if not a romantic?”

 “Very persistent?” Tarva suggested. Her tone sounded wry, but there was a little quaver in it. “Forgive me. I should have asked earlier, but I’ve been... selfish. Between Akachi, and Kaji, and Nefris and Lienna and the Founder –“

 “ – my head feels a little strange, yes, but I’m basically fine. I’m still myself, still Safiya... just... rather more so. The Founder split my soul, but we’ve never truly been separate. I’ve been put back together in a slightly different way, that’s all. I was part of the Founder before. Now she’s part of me. Except that we’re all me.” Safiya laughed again, properly this time. “Szass Tam, Common just doesn’t have the pronouns for this! I think I could sketch out the representative equations –“

 “Please don’t.”

 “It is... odd, having these memories that are and aren’t mine. Suddenly remembering every conversation I ever had with my mother from her perspective as well as mine. I didn’t realise just how _difficult_ a child I was.” She smiled to herself in the darkness. “It’s similar with Akachi. Mother, Lienna and I retained an... echo of loving him, but it was abstract, in a way. Distanced. The Founder kept all of that, but I have it now, and she _was_ me. Or I was her. It’s... I don’t think I can explain it any better than that.”

 “I won’t even pretend to understand.”

 “I’m not sure I do, either,” Safiya said, “but the important part is that I’m all right.”

 “And Kaji?”

 She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling very dry and narrow, which wouldn’t be a problem if there wasn’t also a large lump stuck in it. “It’s stupid. He was just a little made thing, a lump of clay and twigs and magic who couldn’t even pronounce ‘thaumaturgy’ –“

 “It’s not stupid at all,” Tarva told her. “He was your friend.” She paused, apparently searching for words. “Safiya, you know I don’t understand magic, but... can’t he be fixed?”

 “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “But if he could, it wouldn’t be here. Like all the rest of my magic, he requires the Weave.” She sighed. “You know, I never wanted to be a sorceress before.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “I know,” Safiya said, which didn’t come out quite the way she meant it. Never mind; Tarva would understand anyway. Too thoroughly awake to bother trying to sleep again, she got up and pulled her robes over her head. Tarva, she saw, was already dressed in the thin trews and shirt she usually wore beneath her armour padding. It was certainly more appropriate for the sweltering Kirkwall heat than her own robes.

 And her friend was looking at her, with a particular cant of the head Safiya thought she recognised. “How long has it been since you got any real practice with that quarterstaff?”

 There were occasions – rare, but not unknown – that Safiya preferred to be mistaken. “I leave hitting things to those of lesser intellects.”

 “And greater survival instincts,” Tarva parried the barb. “With no magic you can use, are you going to be defenceless?

 As always, her friend had a point... Safiya sighed and surrendered to the inevitable. “No, Tarva. Yes, Tarva, I will go out into the courtyard with you and practice. Yes, Tarva, I will approximate your intelligence and therefore keep the smart comments to a minimum. Please don’t hit me too hard, my teacher.”

 “Don’t worry – I’m not in any condition for that.”

 “Hardly reassuring.”

 -0-0-0-0-0-

 Her guests tucked away in the library, Hawke was enjoying a quiet breakfast with her mother.

 In theory.

 Hawke tapped the muffin with her butter knife. The result was a thoroughly unappetising _thunk_ , and she set the knife down. “Tact is one thing, Mother, but it’s failed. There must be some other way to keep Bodahn out of the kitchen. _And_ Sandal.”

 “That was an isolated incident, dear, and we did clean the purple off the ceiling eventually.”

 “I’d still like to know how he managed it with just a pumpkin and some iodine. Purple dye’s expensive; we could make a fortune.”

 “Another one?” her mother said, sipping weak tea from a dainty cup patterned with lopsided violets.

 “Varric rubs off on people,” Hawke admitted, and took another stab at the muffin. Her fork bounced off. “Anything you’d like me to pass onto the Viscount today?”

 Leandra smiled. “Tell him I’ve booked the Chantry next month for the wedding.”

 She did know when her mother was setting her up to ask the obvious question, but ... “Who’s getting married?”

 “You and Saemus, of course.” Leandra set down her teacup, blue eyes sparkling as she teased her daughter.

 “Really? I thought it might have been you and Seneschal Bran.” Hawke grinned, returning favour for favour. “I was looking forward to finding out his name. Or maybe the Grand Cleric would’ve said, “I, Seneschal Bran, take you, Leandra Hawke, née Amell –“

 “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said. “He was named De Witt for his mother’s family.”

 “De Witt Bran?” It took Hawke a moment, and then she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. She settled on echoing her mother’s smile, sly and ladylike as a cat’s. “That would make his son Dote, wouldn’t it?”

 “Quite possibly,” Leandra said, as Hawke rose from her chair, leaving crumbs and a triumphantly inedible muffin on her plate. She engulfed her mother in a tight hug (the only one left, her mind whispered. Hold on tight, don’t let her slip away as everyone else has) as her mother murmured, “I love you, Flower.”

 “Love you,” Hawke answered, and held on a moment longer before letting go. “Right. I’m off to save the world, one political leader at a time. Keep Sandal off the chandelier if you can, and don’t let him have any salamanders – or iodine, pumpkins or knick-knacks. You remember what happened to that miniature glass mouse.”

 “Dear, I won’t have the time. I intend to devote the day to finding you a suitable husband, even if I have to import one from the Anderfels.” She pursed her lips. “Do you like blonde men?”

 “Not particularly,” Hawke said, thinking of Anders, thinking of Fenris.

 “Par Vollen, then,” Leandra said, with a little nod. “Would you mention it to the Arishok while you’re there, Flower?”

 Hawke considered this. “I could just marry the Arishok. I’m pretty sure that’d solve whatever diplomatic issues Viscount Dumar is having with him, and Fenris says he’s one-third of the Qunari leadership, so socially speaking, you couldn’t hope for a better match. And he’s even taller than me – that’s a rare thing in a man.”

 “Yes... yes, I believe he’d be suitable. Bring him home to meet me this evening, and I’ll have the good silverware set out.”

 “Have the doors enlarged, too,” Hawke said. “His horns tend to get stuck.” She looked at her mother, determined to keep a straight face... but then her lips quivered, and she broke into laughter a bare instant before Leandra joined her.

 -0-0-0-0-0-

 Varric frowned at his messy notes. Baldy’s lecture had given him the facts – a bare skeleton to construct a story on. Such a story it would be, once he toned down all the really outlandish bits and added some different, equally outlandish, ones... but he just didn’t have enough at the moment. Facts were all very well, but he needed descriptions, more emotional weight, more drama. He’d have to wangle them out of Baldy somehow. Or her friend Paragon, which would probably prove just as much fun and as futile as trying to flirt with Aveline.

 Pushing his notes aside and casting a fond glance at Bianca, Varric left his suite. As always, the familiar ambiance of the Hanged Man made him grin a little. It wasn’t much – he had his fingers in much bigger pies, and most of them smelt better – but a dwarf was allowed to have a soft spot for his home, wasn’t he? It was even paid for, after the expedition. 

 In gold and in blood.

 “... Your eyes are like black pearls, pieces of grit covered in the iridescent mucus of men’s hearts-“

 “Ew,” Isabela commented, not an unusual response to the poet’s attempts to woo her, and downed her tankard.

 “Better give it a little more work,” Varric advised the poet, who tore his hair in a artistically depressed manner, gave a sigh of despair, and tore upstairs in sobs (also not unusual). Varric watched him go. “Reckon he’ll ever get tired of that routine, Rivaini?”

 Isabela laughed. “Maker, I hope not. Words like that set a girl’s heart aquiver.”

 “I bet.” He left the pirate drinking and headed outside to check on his artist.

 Well, strictly speaking, she was only _his_ artist for as long as it took her to touch up the figure of a hanged man dangling outside the tavern. It was a bit different from the portraits he’d first noticed the elf drawing on the streets of Lowtown for anyone with the coin and the time, but she was perched up on the rickety ladder and painting steadily away.

 It wasn’t a task Varric would have done himself for any amount of coin – the few experiences he’d had with heights had not been pleasant ones, the ladder looked decrepit, particularly in the rising wind, and he knew where his talents did not lie.

 “How’s it going, Brushes?”

 She tucked a strand of brown hair behind one pointed ear, leaving a livid smear of green paint on her cheekbone. “It’s Inveleth, messere. And you are the judge of my work – you are the customer.”

 The murky blues and reds of the mannequin were slowly being replaced with a jaunty uniform of green and black, with gilded trimmings, and she’d given him the beginnings of a face. Even at this early stage, Varric noted with a grin, it bore an unmistakeable resemblance to –

 “ - sorry, Fenris.”

 Varric turned his head at the familiar voice: Hawke, Broody at her side, probably headed back from their meeting with the Arishok.  

 “I had a nice, wrathful speech all prepared for the Viscount – how it wasn’t right to take advantage of your expertise with the Qunari without recognising you for it, treating you like a lesser person –“

 “I am an elf,” Fenris said.

 “- which shouldn’t matter, especially when he’s asking you to pull his arse off the pyre.” She sighed. “Just... just couldn’t do it. He’s looking so old. I felt like a bully just thinking it.”

 “Hawke!” Varric greeted her. “Broody! Come and admire Brushes’s work, then tell me about your meeting with the Horned Head of the Heathens.”

 Hawke gave the mannequin no more than a quick glance. “Love to, but there probably isn’t time. Remember Javaris Tintop? He stole a recipe from the Qunari – thought it was for that gaatlok stuff, but it’s actually poison gas, which causes murderous delirium and then death. I’d like to get to him before he mixes up a great big cauldron of it.”

 Varric grimaced. “Sounds like fun.” Tintop – the ‘top’ bit clearly referred to his head. “That explains the word on the street that he skipped town in a big old rush. I’ve got a contact down in Darktown – Coterie – who might know more.”

 Hawke nodded. “Isabela inside?”

 “Where else would she be?” Varric asked, and added, “ _Don’t_ answer that,” as he saw Hawke’s mouth opening.

 The tavern’s door swung open. “Did I hear my name?” Rivaini purred. “Were vile and scurrilous things said about me? Please?”

 “Qunari troubles,” Hawke told her, and the pirate’s sultry expression died as abruptly as if she’d been hit with a wet fish – nice simile, that. He’d have to write it down somewhere - “Will you get Anders and Merrill, and see if they know anything to lift a poison gas, or ameliorate the effects? Even protect people caught in it. Check with Sandal, Tomwise and Lady Elegant if you get the chance – oh,” she added an afterthought, “and maybe Safiya, as well. Can’t hurt.”

 “You got it,” Rivaini nodded, and darted off with uncharacteristic enthusiasm and lack of attention to her surroundings – in fact, she shoulder-barged the ladder. There was a cry, a flash of black and silver, and then next thing Varric saw was the ladder on the ground, Broody standing beside it with Brushes caught safely in his arms, and a thick smear of green paint down the side of his face where her namesake had caught him.

 Brushes blinked, a flush as rosy as the sunrise spreading over her cheeks as she looked up at Broody. “Ah... thank you, ser.”

 Broody looked rather ill-at-ease as he set her down. “It is no trouble.”

 Varric snuck a glance at Hawke, and chuckled mentally at her slight frown. He’d thought there was something there! First Paragon, and now Brushes; she definitely didn’t like the sight of Broody with another woman in his arms.

  “All the same, I...” Brushes turned away to pick up the ladder. She only got some of it; the ancient wood had split on the ground. “Oh.”

 “No worries, Brushes,” Varric told her.

 “It’s Inveleth.”

 “Of course. I’ll arrange another ladder first thing tomorrow – a sturdier one, even – so why don’t you go inside for a break? Corff’ll fix you up with whatever you fancy.”

 “Thank you, messere.” Her eyes lingered on Broody as she went, though.

 Hawke coughed a polite little plea for attention. “Qunari? Poison gas?”

 “Let me just grab Bianca,” Varric told her, and did.

 -0-0-0-0-0-

 Varric stepped over an arm that had been attached to a Carta thug a few minutes before. “Hawke, I think we just went around in a circle.”

 The mage shook her head. “These caves all look alike to me. Varric, aren’t you dwarves supposed to have some sort of magical sense of direction underground? Stone sense, or something like that?”

 “Not if you’re born topside. Didn’t we establish this on our little jaunt through the Deep Roads?”

 Fenris sighed. Some variant of the same discussion seemed to turn up any time they had to pass through a cave, and the warehouses were almost as bad. He’d learned to keep track himself, purely in self-defence. “We are not lost, nor have we gone in a loop.”

 Hawke flashed him a grin. “Good to hear.”

 “I do not know, however, where the exit is.”

 “Less good to hear, Broody. What’s the good news?”

 We have not yet encountered any spiders.”

  There was a certain... _scuttling_ in the shadows, and Varric groaned. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?” In one smooth movement, he pulled his crossbow down from his shoulder and fired a bolt into a spider’s eye.

 “You’ve got to wonder why they never seem to eat the Carta people,” Hawke said, readying her staff. “D’you think they’re allergic to dwarf or something?

 “Somehow I doubt it,” Varric laughed.

 Only five of them? Fenris charged, the familiar touch of Hawke’s magic a cold sting across his skin. He welcomed the greater speed that it imbued as he welcomed the jarring impact of sword on exoskeleton and the thing’s angry chitter as it died.

 Three bolts tore past him and embedded themselves neatly around Varric’s first shot. “That’s one down!”

 “Stop boasting.” Encased in her protective spell, Hawke plunged the blade of her staff into a spider’s head, and leapt back from the spray of greenish-grey goo.   

 “Indeed,” Fenris agreed, as he felled another. Hawke at his side, they advanced on the last of them, and none of them would be able to say, later, who’d actually killed it.

 “Fenris,” Hawke said, wiping her blade clean. “Next time you feel like tempting fate and summoning up some enemies, could you make it cute little fluffy rabbits?”

 “Ignore Hawke,” Varric said. “She has no sense of narrative fitness. Giant spiders are fine.”

 “Exit would be better,” Hawke retorted, and smiled at Fenris the way she always did – warm, open, inviting him to share another of her jokes (which were never as humorous as she believed). And contagious; he felt his mouth taking that strange shape again.

 The dwarf was _staring_ at him – then he winked. “So let’s find one.”

 -0-0-0-0-0-

 “You can’t be serious,” Safiya said. They’d spent hours wrangling – the mages she’d met, a pair of alchemists she hadn’t, and Bodahn’s lackwit son – and seemed no closer to an answer. She enjoyed a good discussion, but this wasn’t one. “Really, no Gust of Wind to dispel the effect? No air elementals to purify it for you? Not even a Call Storm? Szass Tam, how do you people get anything done?”

 “Enchantment!” She decided not to take that as an answer.

 Everyone else was ignoring her, which she supposed was fair enough. As far as they were concerned, she probably sounded like a ranting madwoman. She ran a hand over her scalp and looked at Tarva, who shrugged. “You didn’t spot anything useful in Hawke’s books?”

 “I’ve barely started on the herbals and alchemy,” Safiya admitted. “Besides, these people seem to know their craft.”

 “We’re working blind!” the elf – Tomwise – said, while the woman with the pretentious name nodded. “Without knowing the components, we’re just as likely to make things worse as to counteract it.”

 “We don’t know the vectors,” Anders said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “We don’t know what it attacks. We don’t know what constitutes a dangerous dose. We’d have better luck inviting the darkspawn to a tea party. I hope this is just Hawke being pessimistic again.”

 That was, of course, when Aveline rushed into the library. “Where’s Hawke?”

 “Qunari business.” Isabela looked up from cleaning her fingernails with a dagger. “Off chasing down that dwarf Javaris with Varric and Fenris – lucky girl.” The pirate was fickle in her pursuits, it appeared, which was something of a relief.

 “Unless it’s the kind of Qunari trouble that has a Lowtown alley full of poison gas and its inhabitants killing each other - ”

 Anders and Merrill looked at each other.

 “What?” Aveline demanded.

 “It is. Somebody stole the recipe for the gas from the Qunari,” Anders said. “Hawke’s off chasing down the dwarf, but asked us to find a counteragent for the gas.”

 “Without telling us anything else about it,”  Tomwise grumbled. “What does she think we are?”

 “Hawke’s herbcraft has never been much good,” Anders said.

 “Enough!” Aveline held up her hands. “Do you have an antidote?”

 “We have nothing,” the blond mage replied. “Just some basic precautions – breathing through a wet cloth, wearing goggles, limiting skin exposure. The same as you’d do in a fire.”

 “Good enough,” Aveline said. “I’m going in to find the source and get out everyone I can. I need some volunteers.”

 Tomwise shook his head. “Don’t look at me, Guard-Captain.”

 “Nor me,” Lady Elegant sniffed. “I’ll be sending Hawke a bill for my time. Good day to you all.” The alchemists left, and Aveline looked sternly around at those who were left.

 Isabela shook her head, earrings jingling. “Don’t you have all those brawny men in uniform for that kind of job? You aren’t paying them to stand around and look pretty.” She grinned. “If you are, you should make them take their shirts off first. And they should be oiled. You can promote me to Chief Oiler, if you like.”

 “Shut up, whore,” Aveline retorted, almost automatically. “I’m not about to order them into a situation like this.”

 “I like helping,” Merrill said, “but Hawke doesn’t like it when I do, and anyway I don’t know what I can do against poisonous air, if it’s like cavedamp it might even explode if cast a fireball into it and I wouldn’t want to be in the middle of it.”

 Anders opened his mouth, then shrugged. “Ah... actually, I think Merrill covered all my points.”

 Safiya spread her hands. “I’d help if I could – Tarva and I have considerable experience in almost-certain-death situations – but neither of us are likely to be much use currently.”

 “I wouldn’t say that,” Tarva suddenly spoke up. “I have some questions. Aveline, does the gas behave more like fog or smoke? Does it hug the ground or rise? What’s the layout of the area?”

 The Guard-Captain regarded Tarva with some surprise. “Uh, we’ve locked down the affected area, and my guardsmen haven’t reported any incidents among them, so I suppose it must be staying close to the ground.” Tarva nodded, and Aveline went on. “It’s Lowtown – slums. High tenement buildings grouped around a few alleys. Isolated enough that we could cordon it off without difficulty.”

 “Are the roofs in good repair? Accessible?” Aveline nodded an answer to Tarva’s question, with the beginnings of a smile that suggested she was starting to see what the half-elf had in mind. “Merrill, Anders, what’s the range on your spells? Particularly healing, Cure Poison, and sleeping, knock-out effects, things like that?”

 “Line of sight, mostly,” Anders said, frowning slightly. “More delicate healing is better done much closer, but the brute force stuff is fine as long as I can see what I’m aiming at. I wouldn’t be able to flush out poison at any distance. ”

 “I don’t know any healing,” Merrill said, “but I know a spell to make people sleep, although it doesn’t last very long, and another one that sort of makes them stand still for a bit, but that one’s not very nice since it fills their heads with nightmares. I don’t know anything about poison.”

 “There would still need to be someone on ground level,” Tarva said, her eyes level on Aveline. “Probably not more than one. “

 “That’s my place,” the Guard-Captain said firmly. “These are my people.”

 “I get the feeling I’m missing about half of this conversation, you know,” Anders muttered, and Safiya grinned.

 “It’s very simple, really,” Tarva said.

 Oh, that sounded familiar. Safiya couldn’t resist asking “But is it easy?”

 “That would depend on conditions in the alley,” her friend said. “It goes like this – Merrill , Anders and Isabela on the rooftops. Merrill to incapacitate any attackers in the alley, Anders to heal them. Isabela – if you’re willing – to protect the mages, just in case. Aveline in the alley, trying to find the source as quickly as possible. Anders, you’d also be doing your best to keep her safe.”

 Aveline nodded. “That sounds workable.” As Isabela opened her mouth, she added, “I can authorise a suitable payment from the Guard.”

 “Then what are we waiting for?” Isabela grinned, stretching herself like a cat.

 “Uh, what about the part where we’re casting spells in broad daylight and begging the templars to notice?”

 “I doubt we’ll see them, Anders,” Aveline said. “This is a Guard matter, and Knight-Commander Meredith has been very good about keeping her nose out of messes this large anyway.” She fixed him with a hard-edged stare. “There are people in there dying, healer.”

 “I know you’re trying to make me feel guilty,” Anders sighed. “Fine, but you’d better break me out if I get caught.”

 “Don’t leave me behind,” Merrill said. “Templars always look so grumpy. Was Wesley grumpy, Aveline?”

 Anders gave Aveline a look. “You know Hawke wouldn’t approve of using Merrill, don’t you?”

 “She’s not here,” the Guard-Captain pointed out. “And Merrill is, by the way. I’ll take what can get. As long as you don’t use any blood magic, Merrill.”

 The little elf looked miffed – which nearly made Safiya laugh, since her face really wasn’t constructed for it. “I do know other spells.”

 “Then let’s go,” Aveline said. “Thank you, Tarva, Safiya; if Hawke gets back before we do –“

 “I’ll explain the situation and send her on to help,” Tarva assured her.

 -0-0-0-0-0-

 “Spiders and all, worse ways to spend an afternoon than a wild goose chase,” Hawke said, and added, “thanks, Varric,” as the dwarf held her estate door open for her. “Remind me to keep that exit in mind; should’ve taken us much longer to cover that much ground. Anybody home?” she called out.

 “Hawke!” Safiya answered, and came rushing to meet her, Tarva following a little slower. “Gas attack in Lowtown, which matches the symptoms you gave us. Aveline, Isabela, Anders and Merrill are on it.” Quickly she outlined the plan they were following – Tarva’s idea, apparently – and Hawke nodded once she thought she’d grasped it.

 “Did Aveline say where?”

 “Lowtown,” the bald woman said, “tenement blocks, east of the Alienage.”

 “I think I know the spot. Thanks,” Hawke said, and turned to Varric and Fenris to ask whether they were in. They were already nodding. Hawke threw something by way of a farewell over her shoulder and dashed off with the others following.

 Neither of them really had the height to keep up with her when she was in a hurry, but they were not far behind when they arrived in Lowtown. No need to ask where the affected area was; there were stern-looking guards (almost all of those under Aveline’s command) standing posted, and patiently explaining just why nobody was permitted entrance, no, messere, not even if they lived there...

 “Rivaini would’ve taken up them this way,” Varric said, and led them up a dark, twisting, and slightly crumbled stairway. Fenris stepped on an upturned nail, and swore; Hawke banged her head on a beam and was still rubbing it when they emerged onto the rooftops.

 “Hawke! Over here!” That was Isabela, motioning them over to a cluster of chimneys, where Anders and Merrill stood casting their spells down into the alleys below.

 “Merrill? What are you doing here?” They all _knew_ how she felt about blood magic!

 “Helping,” the Dalish said, her mouth set in a sweetly obstinate line.

 “Of course,” Fenris scoffed, and although Hawke felt much the same way about it, she ignored the discussion for now, joining Varric in peering down at the scene below.

 She only saw it for a moment, then turned aside. Even softened by distance and the blur of greenish mist, it was... too much. There were piles of people in every corner of the alleys. Many, far too many of them children; most adults were out earning their bread during the day. There were knives, sticks and other improvised weapons clenched in their small fists, and many of them were wounded. There were adults too, a few of them in the dark uniforms of one of the mercenary bands.

 In the centre, Aveline, a muffled figure with too-large, goggled eyes, only recognisable by her weapons and the flash of bright hair. Her sword was sheathed, shield strapped to her back as she struggled to close a barrel that leaked the toxic gas.

 “Oh, Maker. How many of them are dead?” Hawke asked, her voice quavering.

 “Only a few,” Anders said. “Too many. Come and help me.”

 Hawke nodded weakly, steeled her stomach, and pulled her staff off her back.

 “The big girl’s onto the third barrel,” Isabela said, as Hawke let the Fade fill her. “The lids are pretty stiff, it takes her a while, and sometimes she gets attacked. It’s not just residents down there, either.”

 “I can see that,” Varric said, and Bianca sang a bolt into a mercenary’s back – one of three who came out of nowhere and went straight for Aveline, as Hawke set to work on the pitiful heaps of children. Below, Aveline turned from the barrel to clout another with the crowbar, and Varric dropped the third one.

 Isabela said slowly, “Oh, that’s not good.”

 Aveline struck again, and again, the crowbar swinging in wide, erratic arcs. Even at a distance, they could hear the sickening meaty smack as she battered the man’s head in.

 “Maker’s balls,” Anders cursed, a spell dying on his fingers. “ _That’s the poison.”_

“Not Aveline,” Merrill said. “I mean, she’s too-“

 Hawke sent a burst of healing down at the Guard-Captain, and felt the resistance in her blood. “Got to get closer to her –“

 “She’d only go for you!” Anders shook his head wildly. “ _I_ can’t fix a splintered skull, and I know you can’t either, especially if it’s yours!”

 “Have to do something! Varric? Fen-“

 Fenris was gone. Hawke scanned the area frantically until she spotted him, already several roofs away and climbing down to street level. No protective gear, nothing -“Fenris!”

 “Is that idiot trying to get himself killed?”

 “Shut up, Anders, and help me!” Hawke formed a shimmering sphere around Aveline – it wouldn’t last too long, but it would protect her and keep her from hurting Fenris.

 “He’ll be all right if he’s quick,” Isabela said, shading her eyes against the slanting sunlight of early evening. “Aveline was in there about half an hour before she was affected.”

 “I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Anders muttered.

 The elf made it down to the ground just as Hawke’s Barrier expired, and immediately Aveline started for him, crowbar swinging. Merrill quickly hit her with a spell-

 “Did you just cast _Horror_ on _Aveline?”_

 “It stopped her, didn’t it?” the Dalish defended herself.

 Well, it had – Aveline stood absolutely still, eyes wide and staring at nothing as Fenris tugged the bar from her hand and set to work on the barrel. Hawke watched, silently willing him to _hurry up, get out of there, get Aveline out of there_ –

 “Hawke,” Varric patted her arm. “Try to remember to breathe. Fainting is positively unheroic, unless you’ve just slain a High Dragon.”

 “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, as Fenris finally got the lid clamped down. Aveline stirred, and Hawke immediately enclosed her in a Barrier before Merrill could torture her again. She wasn’t certain how long such a poison might linger in the veins, and after all, some still lingered in the area – better not to take any chances. Fenris looked up at them and gave a little nod; Hawke shook her head and yelled down at him, “You crazy elf-“

 Which was when a female elf with a greatsword (surely the one Javaris had mentioned), waltzed into view at the top of the stairs, looking down at Fenris. Six mercenaries followed her.

 “Someone’s been studying their cues,” Varric muttered, and readied Bianca.

 Fenris’s voice carried clearly as he addressed the woman. “Explain yourself.”

 With usual intensity of Kirkwall’s many crazies (although this one, unusually, wasn’t a mage), the elf ranted about how the Qunari were stealing her people, and how she’d planned to steal the gaatlok and set it off to kill people and foment anti-Qunari sentiment – well, it made as much sense as these kinds of diatribes usually did, and sadly Hawke had become something of an expert over the years.

 Fenris, of course, was less than impressed. While he was too experienced a fighter to attack while they held the height advantage, his sword was drawn as he waited for the elf to finish talking and start her inevitable attack.

 “Blondie, shall we hurry that up a little?” Varric said, without raising his head from Bianca’s sights.

 Hawke knew _that_ tone of voice. “Fenris, get down!”

 Fenris hit the dirt and the crazy elf looked up just in time to see Anders’s fireball come roaring down at her. They scattered before it hit – “Andraste’s arsewipes, I hate it when they have reflexes,” Anders muttered, readying another spell – and Fenris’s tattoos kindled as they rushed him.

 Isabela, never one to stand idle with a fight at hand, had worked her way over to the route Fenris had used to get down – Hawke would have to have words with them both later – and climbed down as Merrill joined Anders at the edge of the roof, hurling spells at the mercenaries below. Varric fired three times, and the crazy elf went down – then the Barrier Hawke had put around Aveline dissipated, and, crowbar swinging, the Guard-Captain joined the fray.

 And then it was just blurry chaos. Her friends were more than a match for the mercenaries, but that never meant it was easy. Healing the warriors and the rogue below, Hawke could’ve cried with relief when she saw the poison-madness lift from Aveline – not just because it meant her oldest friend had her mind back, but for what it implied for the many victims of the attack.

 When Fenris felled the last of them, she did close her eyes for a moment. They’d all survived, and this would not be the day Kirkwall exploded around her.

  In the soft blue twilight, the scene almost looked peaceful. “You are all in so much trouble,” Hawke called down to those below.

 “Not as much as trouble as we’ll be in if the templars catch us here,” Anders pointed out.

 “True. Aveline has to call her guards off, and I have to report back to the Viscount. Maybe the Arishok, too.”

 “The Viscount would probably prefer his report tomorrow,” Fenris said – his voice carried clearly – “but I intend to speak to the Arishok immediately. Hawke.”

 “Yes?”

 “Given that we both answered his summons, it would be... appropriate if both of us were there to tell the Arishok that the situation had been dealt with.”

 Anders snorted. Isabela sniggered. Varric muttered, just loud enough for Hawke to hear, “That has to be the most awkward invitation I’ve ever heard. Also, not appealing.”

 Hawke ignored them. “Of course I’ll come.”


End file.
